


Rochade - A Game of Intrigue

by Elwyn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Agents of SHIELD waves hello, Canon - Movie with continuity nods to the comics, Chessmaster Pileup, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Intrigue, Magic and Science, Major Character (Un)Death may or may not happen, Mindscrew, Mystery, Plot Twists, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Thor: The Dark World, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Psychological Drama, Romance - maybe, Secrets everywhere, Slow Build, So I respect and research the source material but I'm basically doing my own thing, Surprise Pairing, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwyn/pseuds/Elwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rochade is the only non-aggressive move in chess - a single swap changes the rules of the entire game, and nothing is like it was before. Wanda Maximoff was formerly known as the Scarlet Witch, but has refused take the mantle of either heroine or villainess for nearly a decade and tried to live a normal life. She finds herself a pawn in a great scheme unknown to her, with the Avengers as the only group that she could ally herself with. But they too are ensnared in a web of lies and deceptions. Who is a player, who is just a pawn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, thank you for getting past the summary. Bear with me for a little while longer, if you please.
> 
> For those who have read the story before: This is a rewrite inspired by Thor: The Dark World, which offered a few opportunities that were too good to pass up. Also, I've been inactive for half a year, because reallife was demanding. Mea culpa, it shouldn't happen again.
> 
> "Rochade" is a story about subtlety, deception, magic, character growth and redemption (maybe). It's about gaining trust in the untrustworthy, about acceptance and coming on terms with tragedy, loss and one's own suffering. It is also a story about playing (mind-) games, and they have to be prepared carefully. So the buildup will be very slow. 
> 
> Thank you and enjoy :)

  

Rochade – one of the most complex moves in chess was also one of the most exclusive.  It was a move that swapped two pieces with each other, making it a double move, but also the only one that didn't threaten or take other pieces out of the game.  
  
Of course, this swap was tied to a rather lengthy set of rules and premises, hard to prepare, but if handled correctly, it was an elegant and elaborate trap. Chess did offer a fine allegory to the great game in this regard.  
  
Loki took another sip of his tea and looked out of the window. The café offered a lovely view on the streets of New York, where the people scurried around like ants. After all what happened, he had expected those humans to be more shaken, but after the initial shock had worn off, they apparently just went on with their business. So blind in the light of danger, so limp from seeing extinction averted once more, numb in feeling and all too willing to believe the lies they gorged themselves in. In a few decades, they would have forgotten all about his previous attempt to rule them, his invasion nothing more than a chapter in their history books and remembered names on memorial walls; all his actions and sacrifices twisted and turned into the land of legend. It felt oddly appropriate.  
  
But that happened over a year ago. What transpired in the last months was something much more subtle and much more lethal all the same. It had been a grand game indeed, and now it was over, just like that. Like with all games, there were winners and losers. Did he win or lose? He couldn't decide.  
  
Loki idly twirled one of the chess-pieces between his fingers before finally making up his mind about the move and putting it down on the chessboard. Playing all alone wasn't satisfactory, even when he imagined what his usual partner would do. It was strange; it was a game with only sixty-four squares and most the figures had only limited movement that didn’t seem that complex on the first glance. And yet, he had come to cherish this game. He had known it for a long time now, ever since his first visit to this world. He had to admit that it had evolved into something with many intriguing facets and aspects.  
  
“Can I get you anything else?” He had to look up when a waitress of this establishment approached his table. She took him for a normal customer and didn't recognize him as a visitor from another world. Of course she wouldn’t – one would think these people to be more perceptive, but donning proper attire and glasses and tying the hair back was evidently enough to mask his origins. He didn't even have to employ magic to disguise himself.  
  
“I'm fine, thank you.” He wanted to let the matter drop, but thought the better of it in the last moment. He addressed the waitress again. “There would be one thing. Can you do me a favour? Can you make the next move, please?” He gestured at the board.  
  
The girl however smiled shyly and shook her head. “I'm sorry, I don't know how to play chess.”  
  
“That doesn't matter.” Loki explained in an amiable manner. “The way I'm playing, anything you do will disrupt my thoughts and plans. It is the element of chaos and chance that can lay the greatest plans to waste and change the whole outcome drastically. So, please, move any piece you happen to fancy. Whatever you do, you can do no wrong.”  
  
The waitress suppressed a giggle, but complied. She pointed at the white rook still in the game. “That one … goes forward?”  
  
“It does. Bold choice.” He moved the piece for her to the desired square and looked at the result. “Bold, but good choice. There, you have just disrupted my advance to the King. You left the Queen vulnerable though.” She seemed confused, but pleased. “Thank you. That will be all.”  
  
“Are you just here to play?”  
  
“No. I'm waiting for someone.” He gave her a forced smile, waiting for the waitress to let the matter drop. But he hadn't taken her persistence into account.  
  
“Girlfriend?” She asked tentatively. What a curious little thing she was. Either she was in the mood for idle chat or she was attempting to flirt, and rather bluntly so. How droll. But in the end, it didn't matter much. She would find nothing of interest with him, whichever it was.  
  
“Colleague.” He corrected her with a quiet voice. Now that the waitress mentioned it, he wasn't even sure if he could call said colleague a friend. Could he? Would she? He couldn't say.  
  
“Sir, you've been waiting for over three hours.”  
  
 _Oh. That long?_  
  
“She will get here. I'm certain of it.” He wondered how that lie could pass his lips so easily when he felt like choking on it. But his voice was left unmarred by inner doubt, his facial expression gave nothing away but optimism he didn't feel. It came natural to him to mask his true intentions and feelings that he even masked them from himself ever so often. “I'll just wait a little longer.”  
  
Now it was the waitress, that nameless and insignificant little girl that forced a smile in his direction. Did she pity him? Apparently, she did. Strange, pity was something that used to enrage him, now it confused when it should amuse. What a wordplay.  
  
“Let me know if you need something.” The little waitress hurried away, leaving him to his lonely game of chess.  
  
Originally, he had planned to return now to the mess the waitress had done to his strategy, but then he paused, looking at the empty chair across him. Loki had always considered himself patient, but there were words that needed to be spoken, those that his brother, even if he would listen, would not understand. But how to put it in words? He imagined that the chair wasn't empty – would his imagination carry him that far? He took a deep breath, addressing the thin air his fantasy made breathing flesh.  
  
“I understand it now.” There. It sounded so trivial, like his epiphany had been over a seemingly trivial thing, but he, who could express everything, felt himself very inexperienced all of sudden. “I really understand it now in the depths of my very soul. It's … woven into our being, don't you see?” What? What exactly, would she ask, and he had to elaborate to her shade. “We are mortal and eternal, ever-changing and unmoving at the same time. To our own nature we must be true. It may not seem like much, but it means everything.”  
  
Loki took another deep breath and looked upon the empty chair. If it was sadness or disappointment wallowing up in him, he didn't know. “I need to tell you that I understand it now, but you are late. For shame, Wanda. For shame.”

 

 

 


	2. Opening move

  
  
_A few months earlier_   
  
  
The world was filled with secrets. Some of them were small, others important depending on the view. They could be dangerous, even lethal. Other secrets revealed the beauty and joy of life. Most of them were truths yet to be discovered, some were just dreams, yearning the day to come to light.   
  
And then there were secrets so dire, they were best to be forgotten.   
  
Wanda Maximoff knew. She knew that there was the world normal people lived in; it was made doing normal things, eating normal food and working at a normal workplace – but that was only a cover for another world to hide within. It was a world full of terrible truths, of legend and magic, a world where science did not dare to venture. Wanda knew, because she was part of it.   
  
She had been called many things – gifted, terrorist, mutant, witch, freak of nature, freedom fighter, sorceress, outcast. All of them were true. Being one of the rare individuals that developed strange and somewhat frightening abilities, she had been pressed into the group of “Mutant Rights” activists led by her father in her teenage years. He had simply put his children into costumes, gave them fitting code names and utilized their abilities. “Scarlet Witch”, as her father had called her, was mostly a witch by cursing objects and people with bad luck.   
  
It was then, at age seventeen, when she first clashed with the organization called S.H.I.E.L.D. This agency had taken up the responsibility to deal with the supernatural, mysterious and most importantly, the inhuman, whatever danger they posed. The agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. protected the world from knowing about the world in the shadows, the secrets that would disturb and endanger the average human mind.   
  
It was then back then on a raid against a medical facility that she was badly injured and subsequently captured by an agent named Clint Barton, who later advocated her freedom, and much to Wanda's surprise, it was granted - under the condition that she would never use her powers again and cut all ties with any “terrorist element”. Although she had bent both rules, she had stayed true in the essence and tried to live a normal life. The “Scarlet Witch” had died, leaving Wanda Maximoff alone. Perhaps that was for the best.   
  
Somewhere along the road, it had all gone wrong. But when?   
  
Wanda laid her head on the heavy, wooden table, her nose only inches away from from a glass of water and the pills that formed the bulk of her medication. How quaint, although the water didn’t sparkle, she only saw the shade of her dark hair and pale face mirrored in the glass. She knew that she really had to take those pills. Otherwise, she would turn into a pathetic little creature who would frequently curl into a ball, sobbing and filled with self-pity. The thought alone to be in such a sorry state again stirred feelings of nausea. But the security of the medication didn’t come without a price … feelings in general had become rather rare, as though she was only a hollow shell. Indeed, she couldn’t remember her last adrenalin rush, the last time she had felt anything but a touch of sorrow and a good, healthy portion of self-loathing. She wasn’t even able to feel sexual arousal, for goodness sake! Not even her body wanted to have anything to do with her.   
  
And there it was again. Whine, whine, whine. She should just finally take those pills and start another day, trying to piece together that pile of broken glass which was her life. There were many burned bridges in her life that weren't even worth attending anymore, but she had to tell herself over and over again that it could be so much worse. She had been far worse before her stay with her mentor; everything she had to do was to was to roll up her sleeves and start living again.   
  
That was so much easier said than done.   
  
She barely noticed Agatha Harkness entering the kitchen, the woman who had been her teacher and host for so long. It was only when the old witch started gently brushing through her hair with wrinkled fingers that Wanda sat up, staring morosely at the glass on the table. “You used to be so vain and tidy.” Agatha said, the concern clearly audible in her voice. “And now you don't even brush your hair properly.”   
  
“I'm sorry.”   
  
“Don't be. Just be kind to yourself when the mind goes to dark places.” After a pause, she let go of the younger woman’s hair, watching how she started to sort the pills on the table. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Reducing the dosage of my medication.”   
  
Agathas kind face was shadowed by a frown. “Do you think that wise? Would your fellow doctors approve?”   
  
“I am not a doctor yet. I failed the final exams rather spectacularly. I lamented it thoroughly several times before, if I remember correctly.” Wanda smiled, forced and humourless, before she quietly started to explain. “One usually changes the dosage of antidepressants when something in the life or behaviour of the patient changes. After all, medicine can only support healing, but never carry the healing process by itself.”   
  
“What changed?”   
  
I’m reducing my medication, that’s what changed. I’m just so sick of it all - I can’t even look in the mirror anymore. “General mood.” Strictly speaking, that answer was not a lie. It was true that she didn’t want to abide that state of apathy anymore, and she didn’t know what else to change. But Agatha was a wily old woman that wouldn’t be convinced so easily, so Wanda decided to feign enthusiasm, although she didn’t have an ounce of strength in her. “What are we going to do today? Another Thaumaturgy lesson? May we go again more in-depth into the geasa…?”   
  
Agatha smiled affectionately, having obviously seen through the deception with ease. “Actually, I need your help with that divination spell of mine, if you are up to it.”   
  
Wanda nodded slowly. She should be concerned, as these sessions were always particularly straining, but she felt oddly indifferent. Magic used to be such an exciting topic, and now she found herself going through the motions. Agatha’s divinations always struck her as elaborate and skilfull, something she had always admired in her mentor. But Wanda also knew that this art wasn’t exactly her expertise. “ Talent, discipline ...” Agatha had said disappointedly. “ … but no patience.” With all the time at her hands, one would think that patience would be one of her virtues.   
  
“Come on, girl.” The old witch slightly tugged at Wanda's blouse. “No rest for the wicked. I’ll get the herbs, you prepare the mirror and the other tools.”   
  
In the whole time Agatha had trained her, she had learned that magic was full of euphemisms. When there was talk about herbs, it was usually a herb brew that had been soaked for days while various enchantments were put upon it. Said tools also included a sharp-edged ritual dagger. Nobody said that sorcery wasn't uncomfortable at times.   
  
Preparations took little time. Agatha's home mirrored her personality; her furniture was antique, preferably solid oak from the 19 th century, carpets thick and her tableware and vases adorned with ornate pink flowers. The pictures on the wall depicted peaceful landscapes, the beds were fluffy and feathery and the whole mansion was filled with the scent of heavy perfume, wood, spices and herbs. Agatha herself was the kind of elderly woman that baked biscuits for neighbour children she barely knew and still mending their stuffed animals and let them play in her garden – all while she practiced her witchcraft in her work chamber. But that was nothing special in this town of New Salem, where Agatha, as one of the original Salem witches, was not only the founder, but also a common sight.   
  
Wanda was rather sure that the mirror used for this kind of ritual had already been in her mentor's possession in the 1690s – it was heavy, with a dark, wooden frame and dull and dotted surface that revealed its age easily. She placed it on the round worktable, inside the circle of runes. She had to clean it carefully, as specks of dust would disturb the spell that was about to be cast.   
  
“The more rare the ingredients, the more powerful the spell will be,” Agatha said as she walked in with a bowl of herbs. “Dried Milk Thistle gathered thirty-three years ago, Basil plucked by a young woman during full moon ...” Wanda snorted at this comment. How often did she have to tell that she was approaching age thirty and was therefore no young maiden anymore? “ … and several others brewed together in the night of the convergence. This will be a sublime spell.” The eyes of the old lady were shining with ardour. “What did I tell you about the convergence, my dear?”   
  
“The convergence is a time when all the Nine Realms are perfectly aligned with each other and thus intertwined for a short time.” Wanda rattled down the lesson she had heard multiple times the last few weeks.   
  
“Very good. There were some problems at the crossing of the leylines, I heard, but it seems that science has caught up and protected this world in this difficult time. Delightful how everything changes in such a short time, don't you think?” She tipped her chin. “Although there was an outsider involved. No matter, next time we will do it on our own.” With these words, she poured the brew onto the mirror's surface, only to be seeped away as if the surface was a sponge.   
  
“I have a question, Agatha. I've studied your ingredients, but one just doesn't fit the spell. Why do you always add Juniper?”   
  
The witch snickered briefly. “The potion would be awfully smelly without it. Juniper berries counter that. I live and work here, I can't have that malodour pestering me.”   
  
“Fair enough. This spell is important and I could disturb it; shall I sit in the corner?”   
  
Agatha shook her head. “No, I want you to partake in it.” Wanda opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by the older woman's explanation. “This isn't about inexperience or attunement. Perhaps this time, you will see some images that makes sense to you.”   
  
Wanda seriously doubted it, as in the previous sessions, she had only seen blurry, nonsensical things that bordered on the absurd, if any at all. She nonetheless conceded with a sigh, stepped up to the table and reached for the ritual dagger.   
  
“Are you sure?” Agatha's brow was wrinkled in concern, and not without cause. Witchcraft and divination in general mostly lived from a connection of varying nature – in this case, part of the spell was powered by blood. Alternatively, saliva or other body fluids could be used as well, but blood was much more effective – and much more classy. The cause of concern however was the “backlash” a powerful ritual usually generated. The caster was fatigued and drained after the spell, and by shedding blood first, Wanda had just decided to take the bulk of the backlash, as she had done several times before. “ I am at the peak of my physical health. Mental doesn't count here.” , she had always argued. “ No offence, but you are my elder. I'll manage better than you.”   
  
As always, there was a little reluctance in Agatha's eyes; She watched her apprentice performed a small cut on the heel of her hand and let the blood trickle onto the surface of the mirror. As expected, the drops of blood just vanished into the surface, which looked now much like a small vortex of silvery water, brimming with magic.   
  
Wanda handed the dagger to the older witch, then leaned forward to cup her chin in her hand and watch the few blood-drops trickle in an almost disinterested and bored fashion. She couldn't hold back a quip when she saw Agatha drawing a little blood as well. “That isn't sanitary. You could clean the blade beforehand, you know?”   
  
A good-natured scoff was the answer. “Shush you, we are doing magic here.” With the droplets of blood from the old sorceress and a few, whispered incantations, the spell was complete.   
  
Wanda knew that for an outsider, it would look like two women were just looking into a weirdly glowing mirror with a watery surface, but for the two of them, it was a whole different experience. The spell engulfed all senses, overwhelming them with senses and images from the past, the present, and sometimes even the future. For Wanda, it was like being cradled into a warm blanket while sharp icy cold cut into skin and blinded the eyes. She smelled fire and iron, heard the screeching of a bird-of-prey and the rattling of chains, which terrified her.   
  
More impressions formed: The sickenly sweet smell of death, mirrored soul, a shield protecting her from harm, chess pieces moved on a board, cool fingertips trailing along her spine, the sight of a lifeless wasteland, a double-edged curse woven by her hand, a hero lying in a pool of blood, a soulless puppet, a wicked grin on a purple-coloured face, sharp pain in her chest, a gift of truth, Hawkeye taking aim for the kill, the sound of ruffled feathers and silent heartbeats. But most dominant of all impressions however were a soft, golden glow, the feeling of remorse and the paralyzing fear of a chained monstrosity in the dark.   
  
That made no sense at all. She knew that visions like these were not necessarily in order, and sometimes even only allegory. But what was she supposed to think of that? Before she could even try to piece together those visions, she suddenly got very dizzy. The world just kept spinning and spinning, even as overwhelming fatigue washed over her. Finally, she felt her knees buckle and sank on the floor. Everything was in a haze, and to pick herself up proved to be a serious challenge. It took her a few moments to blink away the stars before her eyes and recover from that strange dizziness.   
  
For a moment, Wanda entertained the idea to just keep her eyes closed and stay where she was to sleep the side-effects of the spell off. But Agatha wouldn't like that. The old witch always insisted that she at least rested in her bed, no matter how exhausting the backlash. That was probably the reason she felt her mentor shaking at her shoulder. It took quite some effort, but when Wanda finally propped herself up, she was surprised to discover that she had been covered with a blanket while still lying on the floor. When did that happen? She had been on the floor for just a few seconds.   
  
  
“You have been resting here for hours. It's already past noon.” Agatha said, as if reading Wanda's thoughts.   
  
“What?”   
  
“I know, it's disorienting, but we have to get you moving.” The old witch's voice was marked with barely contained urgency while her face was overshadowed with concern and anxiety.   
  
“Yes, but … what?”   
  
“Come on, up with you. We have no time to lose. Haste, haste, haste!”   
  
Wanda felt boneless and weak, but when Agatha Harkness' was that concerned and insisted that much on immediate hurry, there was no time for questions. She got herself up in a time that felt like eternity and staggered forward, supported by her teacher, who led her out of their home to the streets of New Salem.   
  
The usually peaceful city in its picturesque landscape, lovingly modeled and built after the picture of ancient European cities, was in turmoil. The people, sorcerers all, disfigured, beastly and human alike were in a hurry. The sky, once beautifully bright in the midday sun, was now colored in a foreboding, dreadful black, darker than a starless night. Foul weather had decided to play herald for foul times, it seemed.   
  
“What's going on?” Wanda only now noticed that even her speech was a little slurred. How embarrassing. She kept stumbling and would have fallen for sure several times if not for the support of Agatha.   
  
“We are sealing this conclave.”   
  
“But that's just for emergencies.”   
  
“Exactly.” They entered one of the most ancient buildings in town – the hall that contained the so-called 'Gate'. It was possible to travel via this teleportation gate between hidden sorcerer villages. But when a conclave sealed itself, that gate was destroyed to keep whatever had befallen the sealed village from spreading to the others. As if guessing the thought again, Agatha continued to explain. “You are the last one we are sending through the gate.”   
  
“What?” Wanda realised that she repeated herself in a rather stupid fashion and shook her head to regain at least her senses, but not to avail. What was Agatha doing? If there was someone to be sent into safety, there was certainly someone more important than she. “Why?”   
  
“Because of the people you know.”

With all the bridges Wanda had burned and the fact that she considered herself rather isolated, she was tempted to let out a bitter laugh, but it stuck in her throat. Another wave of exhaustion washed over her and she had trouble staying on her feet. With her hazy mind, she had trouble following the conversation Agatha had with a middle-aged man she didn't recognise and who evidently was there to assist the activation of the gate.  
  
“London.” Agatha insisted.   
  
“Not Canterbury?”   
  
“No, they are too distrustful. The Londoners are bold enough to hide in plain sight. They'll improvise.” The old witch then turned to Wanda and grasped her by the shoulders. “Sweetie, you have to listen to me closely, this is important.” After a weak nod, Agatha continued, her voice grave. “Tell the Sorcerer Supreme, the Hawk and the Thunderer that they have to retrace the steps of the Jotun and retrieve what he hid. The Thunderer also needs to know that the Gauntlet has been stolen. Keep it discreet and keep it safe, will you?”   
  
“Retrace the steps, retrieve what the Jötunn hid, Gauntlet stolen.” Wanda confirmed, even though she was thoroughly confused and in her fogged mind did not really grasp the situation.   
  
“Very good. Also, you need to find the Spymaster before he strikes. And whatever happens, don't mess with time. It doesn't work, honestly.”   
  
While the gate was being powered in the background, Wanda couldn't help but shake her head in confusion. These were just about the strangest instructions she had ever heard, but it took no genius to guess that it had to do with the divination made in the morning. She should feel panic rising, but her feelings were numbed.“Agatha, what did you see ?”   
  
“Love and Death.” The witch smiled sadly. “Take one step at a time, work slow, but thoroughly. Please don't come back here, it isn't safe … at least don't come back now. One step at a time, remember?” Agatha stopped herself in her motherly concern and took a deep breath.”Don't worry, everything will be fine in the end.”   
  
By now, even Wanda understood that this was goodbye. She refused to believe it, however. This wasn't happening. That was just some weird, magic-induced dream and she would wake up any minute. So she didn't ask the questions that she should ask – what would happen to Agatha.   
  
The witch seemed to read her mind once again and answered the question warmly. “Tell those and only those who ask directly and by name that New Salem has fallen and I am no more.” With these words, she pushed Wanda into the open gate, who was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer force of the spell, consumed by a white flames and cold fire that spirited her away.   
  
Agatha turned around and left the building, looking over the vast, rocky lands she herself had shaped for a long time; when she saw the opportunity in this New World, she couldn’t resist.   
  
The Library was built in baroque style, an old favorite of hers, as were many of the buildings. There was this well decorated with an ugly dove-figurine she adored nevertheless, in one alley she even had managed to put a Blackhead’s Crest from Riga on the wall, lined in silver, shining once a day only in the light of the midday sun. This hidden beauty suited New Salem well.   
She had kept this place hidden, fertilized and protected from the outside world with her bare hands, magic and iron will alone. And now she looked down upon her city, her home for so long, the people who trusted her leadership … it was about to end. Suddenly, she felt weary.   
  
She had made the next to last move, even if the last phase was more hasty and less prepared than she had anticipated. What if she was wrong. What if she failed? What if the reaction wasn't as she hoped. Wasn’t it a little late for doubt? It certainly was – there was no way to stop this chain of events. She had prepared for years, and this was the best she could do. So she squared her shoulders and kept going. Soon, her last task would be to conceal the truth, and then, the Grim Reaper would arrive. It was a bittersweet meeting she almost looked forward to.   
  
“Your turn, Allfather.”


	3. Knight's Resolve

  
"Yes, yes, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to wait for another hour or two. Open up the ... eh, some Latour, but not the really good one. Would be a waste." Pepper's only answer consisted of rather frosty silence, and even though he talked with her over the phone, he could picture her disapproving frown all too well.   
  
"Come to think of it, don't offer them wine. Offer them some champagne, because we’re good friends, yadda yadda yadda." Tony Stark loosened his tie and glanced over his shoulder. He only saw the back of Clint Barton, sitting in his chair and piloting the aircraft. It seemed that they sent high-ranking assassins to pick him up nowadays, instead of Phil Coulsons.   
  
What was wrong with those S.H.I.E.L.D.-guys? Coulson at least had had the decency to disappear after handing him important things, but Barton? Hell-bent on getting him into that Quinjet before he could finish his coffee, expression all stern.   
  
There was no chance to get some privacy here, so he turned around and spoke into his phone in a hushed voice. “Listen, Pepper ... do I have to? I mean, you run the company as well. You don't need me for thi ... yeah, I know, important people. Can't you just tell them that I'm on, ya know, hero business? Now that you mention it, I AM on hero business, saving their asses since 2009." He winced when he was immediately called out on his whining. This conversation was going so sideways.   
  
"I'll call you on when I actually know what Fury wants. Is there something ... what?” Who was this woman Pepper kept talking about? She kept insisting that said old woman who had left cryptic messages with his secretary that would put the Da Vinci-Code to shame. He wasn't quite sure why Pep thought these message to be so important – perhaps that destiny-insert-mysterious-anagram-right-here-talk had awakened some puzzle-instinct in her. Ugh, destiny. In the great encyclopedia of the real world, that word labeled right before “dumbass” for a reason. But really, did he have to make himself available for every old lady who lost her cat now?   
  
Somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that Pepper was a little tense today. He had to make it up sometime soon. Just not now, no time, no time. Out of the window he could see the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, which meant that he had to conclude his chat. Why was he here again? Right, because his esteemed colleague had dragged him into this, whatever it was. Not his primary problem right now, that place was currently occupied by his stressed-out girlfriend.   
  
"Listen, I've got this recipe from my father. I'll make you some cheesy stuff and tell you what all this was about, okay? Fondue you later." With that, he hung up and turned again to Hawkeye, who was in the middle of the landing procedure. He had known that guy to be rather easygoing and even a little cocky at times, but now he seemed overly serious. Pepper didn't seem the only one on edge today.   
  
"My, aren't we in a jolly mood? You gonna tell me what's wrong or do I have to wait for Fury?"   
  
"I don't know what this is about." Barton didn't even spare him a glance, apparently focused on his console. Emphasis on "apparently". Tony knew that if he stared long and intently enough, he would come clean. The presence of a Stark was just that good.   
  
"I'd tell you, but I honestly don't know." ... or not. At least Barton tried to smile, but he only managed a grimace. Still no answer, so it was time for the big guns, which meant teasing him with his quasi-platonic-heterosexual-lifepartner. Cheap trick, cheap way to coax anything out of someone, but Barton kind of had it coming now.   
  
"Issues with Natasha?"   
  
"What the fuck? Why does everyone think …"   
  
"So there are issues with Natasha."   
  
"There are never issues with Natasha. She is completely issue-free, you know."   
  
"But you mention 'issue' and 'Natasha' in the same sentence."   
  
Barton's expression turned from mildly irritated to high-quality eye-rolling. "Oh, so you caught me there. " He managed even a half-amused smirk. Landing procedure complete, that Agent was still back to his own self, but lightened up a bit and wasn't uncharacteristically stoic anymore. Tony concluded that he had done his one good deed for the day and mentally crossed it off.   
  
The atmosphere in the conference room was approaching zero steady and fast. When Tony stepped through the door, the only two occupants merely nodded to him and Clint Barton in respect, but otherwise went on their business, which was ... hard to say, actually. Steve Rogers sat at the table, idly beating the devil's tattoo on the table area with one hand. The other arm was kept safely out of sight for whatever reason. Hair and clothes were still very old-fashioned, but to be perfectly honest: Tony couldn’t imagine the Captain in any other attire, nor in any other way. That man was simply born in the last century, but right now he looked as if all these decades were resting on his mighty shoulders, dragging him down mercilessly.   
  
He even seemed a little paler than usual. At a second glance, Steve left his other arm hanging, as if it weren't part of his body anymore. Tony was no stranger to injuries, and he knew it when he saw one: The powerful Captain America, stopped by an injured arm? Strange, and somehow rather impossible.   
  
Natalia Romanova leaned at the wall looking out of the window, arms folded before her chest. Her hair had grown since their last encounter with the Chitauri and Loki, and she now wore it in a ponytail, radiating a certain cold and professional countenance. She was also the only one in her "uniform", or rather her tight-fit catsuit. Very tight-fit indeed. Dressed for battle. What battle though? That remained to be seen.   
  
These were his companions from their epic fight in Manhattan. He hadn't seen them for a while, and yet they all seemed a little more distant than before. Did they know what Fury wanted? Or did something change? What happened?   
  
"Where's Banner?" Ah, so Captain Rogers had decided to start a conversation, while Barton silently sat down. It wasn't surprising that Steve held him responsible for the last team member’s presence, since Banner had taken up residence in the old Stark Tower - which was now rebuilt into an Avenger's Tower – and pursued his own scientific interests.   
  
"Dunno. He left to meet a colleague a few days ago. I expected him to be back at the end of the month."   
  
Steve gave him a black, accusing look, but Tony shrugged it off. "He left a note. He does this from time to time. Free human being, free country, he can go wherever he want. He will show up when he's needed." Sheesh, it was high time for these guys to finally trust Bruce Banner with his anger management, which had proven to be more successful than initially believed. Whenever this planet was under attack, the hulk would gear up, holding the front, the attackers merely a tiny annoyance. He had proven himself just once, but he had proven himself when it really counted. He would prove himself again should something like Manhattan happen again.   
  
"I'm sure he will." Nick Fury's voice sounded grave and firm, while he strode into the room. But he didn't do it casually - nothing Nick Fury did was ever casual. He was always intense, always stern, always imposing. But today, something was different, and Tony was certain that it had something to do with the white, unassuming box he carried. Placing it on the table, Fury stepped back to address all the attending Avengers. That name still sounded a little strange to Tony's ears, not to mention dramatic. Corny dramatic.   
  
"This was placed on our landing deck half an hour ago …"   
  
Tony didn't even try to restrain himself. "Nice Job. I mean, wow. Your cloaking device sucks." But for once, just this once, Nick Fury's look was intimidating enough to silence Tony Stark.   
  
There was an uncomfortable pause before Steve chimed in, his voice thick with wariness. "It's a head." Of course it was a head. A white box. Either head or cake. Obvious. Head was more likely in their line of work though.   
  
"I can still smell the blood." Damn ... he had never had any doubt that the Black Widow had made quite a name for herself as an assassin, but that remark was super-creepy. Almost as creepy as putting a head in a box on the table. Seriously, what the hell?   
  
Director Fury ignored them, produced some latex gloves and put them on in what seemed like an eternity. Stark was rather sure that the director already knew whose head was in the box, had checked it three times back and forth for bombs, mines or other pleasantries ... he was just building up drama. For all he knew, it could be the head of the President of the United States in that box.   
  
He was wrong. It was worse. So much worse.   
  
Fury carefully lifted the object out of the box and placed it on the table in a tentative, almost gentle manner. The head was a too large for an average human, cut off raggedly by an unskilled hand or with a dull blade - or both. The hair was black and unkempt, the expression of the man's face peaceful, as if he had just closed his eyes to sleep. His complexion was in a greenish hue, but his features ... it couldn't be. There was no way this could happen. This was a trick, a cruel joke. It was virtually impossible.   
  
"Bruce Banner.“   
  
"No." Nick Fury's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "The Hulk."

 

* * *

 

I am Sif, Battlemaiden of Asgard.  
  
After the Bifröst was destroyed, the Nine Realms were without protection for a brief time. As a result, wars erupted, marauders were pillaging and chaos reigned. After the rebuilding of the Bifröst, order had to be restored.   
  
The worst and most vicious fighting however took place in Asgard, when the Dark Elves of Svartalfheim once again threatened to destroy us all. The battle was bloody and internecine – even the gentle Queen fell victim to it.   
  
But in the end, we were victorious. Thor made it all happen. He took all this carnage and all this loss and made it into something beautiful. Even when I was close to losing hope, he wasn't going to let himself be defeated. In the end, Thor prevailed against all odds, despair, a dangerous artefact and even managed to dodge being betrayed by his jealous brother. He was now with his Jane on Midgard.   
  
This infatuation with her would pass in time. That woman's life was fleeting, just an ephemeral dream of a short night. Thor always followed his passions, and this was destined to be a short-lived one. He even fought about it with his father, I heard, and still stayed by his decision. I always admired him for his steadfastness, even if the path he had chosen was not an easy one.   
  
His Jane might have been the reason why he fought briefly with his father, but I think it was Loki and his supposed sacrifice that eventually caused Thor to turn down the throne that should have been his a long time ago. It pained me to see him so conflicted, and it pained me even more what I had to do right now.   
  
That bold little girl wasn't the one that was bad for him. Loki was. His punishment was a silent conflict between Odin and Thor, and now I feared that my dear friend would suffer even more if I didn't intervene.   
  
I have endured much scorn for my choice to become a warrior. But there were two men who had always respected me and my choices, always supported me – they ended up being more close to me than my own family.   
  
They were the most important men in my life whom I trusted implicitly. When I watched Thor train for the first time, although almost a child, I was awestruck. With his flowing, golden hair and his imposing physique he looked like the most powerful man alive to me. I instantly wanted to be like him. So I sneaked into the training chambers and started to fumble with the practice weapons, nearly hurting myself. Thor had secretly been watching me and laughed wholeheartedly at my feeble attempts. But then, he looked deep into my eyes, testing my resolve.   
  
I held his gaze.   
  
It was at this very moment, where the amused flicker in his eyes vanished and he took my hands into his, only to place them on the spear with the rough and knowing touch of a seasoned fighter.   
  
“You have to hold it like this, or it will slip from your grasp.” he said, without mockery but with respect.   
  
I had loved him from that day on as my future king, as the man who supported me and as the only man to believe in me when no one else would.   
  
One day, the mockery of the men I was training with took finally its toll. I had broken my sword in a clumsy swing and was a laughingstock for everyone, so I had withdrawn to a secluded spot in the palace in misery, to shed tears about my failure. It was then when the Allfather himself silently sat beside me.   
  
“Why are you crying?” I remember his gentle voice vividly, even to this day. But at that point, I was determined to be deeply disappointed.   
  
“I broke my sword. I will never be a warrior.” I sobbed, but the Allfather just smiled and chose to impart a small fraction of his wisdom to me.   
  
“The weapon does not make a warrior. His skill does. Don’t let yourself be judged by small-minded men. It is your honour and nobility that will make you outshine them all someplace, sometime.” With these words, Odin took my childish doubts away and replaced them with strength. I had respected him before, but from that day on, I loved him as my King.   
  
Now, my respect and affection for them both demanded of me to do something against my very nature and behind their backs.   
  
The two guards who let me into the chambers were distant cousins of Volstagg and had vowed to keep the matter silent. I looked behind over my shoulder to see Fandral giving me a worried glance, but he nodded in consent. Together, we stole into the room, the guards turning a blind eye. The chambers were very basic and cold, the stone walls naked and unadorned.   
  
This was where the bodies of the fallen were prepared for their final journey. This was where I was supposed to find Loki.   
  
I didn't have to search long. The fallen of the great battle had already been sent; so he was lying on a stone table, hidden beneath a sheer veil, clad in his leather armour. There was some discussion going on what to do with him, whether his death was enough to erase his crimes – it was important to know, as it would affect the method of his burial. Strange ... my whole life, this man had just been there, and then it happened all so fast. His whole appearance had been a lie and he had become a menace who was just waiting to harm everything I hold dear. It hadn't been so long ago that he was a shy man who would ask me repeatedly out to dance and watch my every move with longing eyes. I had scoffed at him. I wonder if he had intentionally harmed those I respected the most just out of spite for me. Vengeance for being spurned? I wouldn't put it past him.   
  
“Are you sure about this?” Fandral's voice was hushed and he still sounded a bit unsure. If I hadn't known better, I would say that he was shaken. “If we use the powder, there's no turning back. You know that debts with Karnilla's acolytes never go away. We will pay them until the end of our lives, if we are unlucky.”   
  
“We can never rest peacefully if we don't know for sure.” I answered firmly. “Peace is worth the debt”   
  
Fandral sighed heavily … again, if I didn't know better, I would say he was adust. Perhaps he had promised something he didn't tell me. It was no question that my swashbuckling friend had gone to great lengths to procure this magic powder. It was definitely genuine, as the sorcerers of Nornheim would never risk giving away faulty products. Also, it was assured that it was the most potent things to counter magic. It would dispel any enchantment on the body before us, that much was sure. If we were lucky, nothing would happen.   
  
Again, it was Fandral who slowly tugged at the veil, careful as if not to disturb Loki. He looked like he was merely asleep, his skin tinted blue while strange markings adorned it.   
  
“He doesn't look much like a Jotun.” I heard myself say. “He wasn't tall or strong enough. Perhaps he was a hybrid.”   
  
“We will never know.” Fandral added, and started to dust the quiet face of the fallen Frost Giant who didn't look like one. I held my breath, and for a moment, it seemed like the silvery powder would only rest on the blue skin and doing nothing else.   
But then, it started to glow, pure and white, and all the colour just vanished, leaving the pale, white face of a man I didn't know. From the look of things, he looked Asgardian, with dirty blond hair and a flat face … he was also much more sturdier built than Loki.   
  
“I knew it.” I said between clenched teeth. I had feared as much. That was the reason for this whole operation, and right now, I hated to be right. “He's alive.”   
  
Fandral didn't say anything. He didn't need to.   
  
Oh, how I feared this. I had talked the matter over with Volstagg and Fandral, and they were both ready to follow my lead on this. So the responsibility lay with me.   
  
I closed my eyes and remembered the last two years. When Thor had mourned Loki for the first time, he had been inconsolable; it only worsened when he had to discover that his brother had gone rogue and threatened the world he was so fond of. It wasn't his Jane who had hurt him – he longed for her, he missed her, but she didn't cause him pain. But knowing his venom-tongued brother in prison had made him weary and he suffered from the contempt he was met with. The more I think about it, the more I am certain that Loki manipulated a lot of people in a lot of incidents over the years, and Thor ultimately was the victim. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he engineered Thor’s banishment. He had always been one to confuse with jealous lies, ruining lives and scarring souls. He did it even when he wasn’t there.   
  
I know what my dear friend would want from me now; he would like to be told before his father and then would ask for help to search for his wayward brother who wasn't even his brother. I know what my beloved King would want from me now; he would like to know first and quietly, so he could deal with the matter without causing any more uproar in Asgard.   
  
Whichever way I chose, they would both suffer in the end.   
  
“Get Hogun.” I told Fandral, who hurried away in an instant.   
  
There was only one way I could protect them both from harm. Odin had taught me to trust in me and my honour; Thor had taught me to trust in my instincts and my strength. I would need all the skills they both imparted on me to see this matter through.   
  
Loki was dead, and I would make the tale true.   
  
I am Sif, Battlemaiden of Asgard, and by the blood that runs through my veins, I will hunt this bastard down.

 


	4. Grob's Attack

 

  
It was time to look at the bright side: The portal didn't send Wanda directly into a wall something equally solid and therefore deadly.  
  
On the bad side, the woman that had tutored her for most of her adult life and granted her refuge when she needed it most was most likely dead, her adopted home was in unknown and grave danger while she was sent away on an errand, that errand included locating an alien on another planet while she was lying on a marble floor she didn't recognize.  
  
 _Keep calm, everything is fine. Agatha wanted to teleport you to safety and the transition was just a little rough._  
  
No, nothing was fine. No amount of blinking was able to make that picture or the memories go away. If this was a bad dream, it was a very persistent one. What was there to be done? She had been sent away from all the danger to play messenger, however dissatisfying this was. The sensible thing was to get up and get these messages delivered.  
  
Easier said than done. She had to take several deep breaths before she was even remotely capable of rational thought. This was insane … what happened? It was getting hard to ignore the painful lump in her throat and the constant threat of tears wallowing up. She reminded herself again not to panic and keep calm again; this also meant that she had to make a priority list. The first point on such a list should be egoistic: physical integrity.  
  
It was only then that she noticed the pain in her forehead. Gingerly touching the center of pain she felt a little blood – small laceration. She also experienced mild nausea, vertigo and her vision was a little blurry - warning signs of a mild concussion. She must have had staggered against the nearby wall and then grazed something while falling to the ground. It was painful, but didn't seem like a serious injury. Getting up was more difficult than previously thought as well – the first attempt failed due to wobbly knees. That was alright. Crawling was moving forward, too.  
  
Wanda finally struggled on her feet, clutching at a polished table while it took several more moments for her eyes to adjust to the dark. These halls were spacious, with large windows that allowed the darkness of night to be lighten up by very faint moonlight. Several lights seemed to flicker outside, perhaps because of the activity of a sleepless city? The architecture looked classicist, with delicate adornments on pale stone; the furniture kept in the same style.  
  
This was supposed to be a hidden conclave of sorcerers, and a luxurious one at that. Whatever had happened in New Salem, it was on the other side of the world. She was safe here – it might be in the middle of the night, but somebody was bound to be here somewhere. There was usually at least one mage on watch to guard the Gate. Where was that Gate? One could disguise such a thing or even a circle of runes required for this sort of travel behind paint or work it into the surroundings, but nothing on the floor, walls or furniture, clean as they were, would allow that.  
  
It was only a sudden inspiration that drove Wanda to look up at the ceiling. It was not uncommon for classicist ceilings to be painted in the same style, but in this case, the soft colours and clear lines followed a pattern, one that could be recognised by someone schooled in the occult. They had hidden their portal in a piece of art, and in a ceiling, no less. Brilliant. That actually would have worked like a charm if the sorcerer on watch had been in attendance and Wanda hadn't been tattered by the previous divination spell.  
  
On the far side of the room, there was light shining from under the door. Someone was awake there, that's where she had to go. At first, Wanda could only stagger forward slowly, but gained her composure gradually as she approached the door.  
  
Behind it, she found the mage on watch, but the horror of that discovery struck her to the very bone.  
  
The man lying on the floor of a wide hallway was plump and elderly, with grey hair, moustache and an old-fashioned, mustard-coloured suit and bow-tie. Checking his vitals revealed what she had feared – death had shaped the features of this face. Her education told her that he couldn't have been dead for long, the other education told her that gruesome use of magic was involved – a lot of magic. What happened here? Was the conclave under attack as well? By whom? What was going on? These people were so cunning, so how could this happen to them? Perhaps this was the only victim?  
  
When a person entered the doorway, Wanda cringed, expecting nothing more than some dark, murderous psychopath hurling fire and brimstone at her. Instead, a chipper young woman approached, striding towards in wide, busy steps. “Oh, hey there. You are medical staff, are you not?”  
  
Even though Wanda felt herself trembling nervously, she tried to calm down. This woman was obviously an investigator. Moreover, she thought her to be an investigator as well. It seemed to be a good idea to keep it that way and get out of there, before anyone entertained the idea to suspect Wanda with the murder of this man.  
  
Also, investigators only showed up when the danger had passed, so there was nothing to fear, right?  
  
The woman that was now kneeling beside the body had long, brown hair and looked a little too enthusiastic, given that she was dealing with a dead person and didn't even wait for an answer. Also, she had a distinct british accent, which was to be expected. Wanda felt reminded of the movie “My Fair Lady”, where the use of accents was a significant plot-point. But she probably did the Fair Lady investigator injustice; she had never seen this movie in english and couldn't tell if their accents were alike. Also, she wore a pink tie. How quaint!  
  
Fair Lady was now fumbling with her kit, only glancing in the other woman's direction. “What do we have here?”  
  
“The victim has been dead for at least a few hours. Rigor mortis hasn't even set in yet. Source of death was a significant amount of energy discharge to the upper chest, which disintegrated part of the lower sternum, two ribs and a portion of the lung tissue. Judging from the entry angle, I would guess that the blast severed the aorta, but we can't be sure without proper autopsy.” At least, that answer made sense from the medical perspective, although much of it was speculation, as Wanda had only made a very quick observation. She had no idea if it was convincing, however. She wasn't even sure they called a victim really “victim” in the trade language of criminal investigation.  
  
Fair Lady looked a bit bewildered for a moment. Wanda could feel sweat forming on her brow – had she used the wrong terms? Did she fail in her estimation? Perhaps it was some kind of taboo to estimate the time of death without measuring liver temperature? Every muscle tensed while she was struggling to keep a calm façade, not knowing if she did that in vain.  
  
“Holy mother of compelling voice of sorrowful sadness.” Fair Lady said at last in a deadpan tone. She then cocked her eyebrow. “You're bleeding.”  
  
It took a great deal of self-discipline not to breath a sigh of relief. Right, she had a tiny injury. “Do you see these heels? They invite a stumble once or twice a year. Today was the annual stumbling.” Wanda lied quickly, trying not to pay too much attention to the previous comment.  
  
“They don't look that high.”  
  
“That doesn't keep me from stumbling.”  
  
Fair Lady looked conflicted for a moment, glancing back and forth between the scratch on Wanda's forehead and the injuries of the dead mage. In the end, the body and her curiosity about his demise evidently won. “Energy discharge, obviously. But either the heat should have liquified the surrounding tissue, or leave if scorched and blackened. But I see none of it here.” She then sniffed at the jacket of the mage and touched it tentatively, only to frown. “Do you feel that hum?”  
  
Odd, that one. “Actually, the lack of marks like this point us to a bioelectric charge.” Wanda bit on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from talking. She wasn't part of this investigation and shouldn't put any ideas in the woman's head that could lead her to suspect something supernatural, or paying too much attention to her current company.  
  
But Fair Lady was preoccupied thinking through the “Bioelectricity”-theory and didn't quite dismiss it. “Not unlike the Chitauri-virus we encountered. That worked from the inside and was carried by discharges … what if ...? Oh no. You touched him without gloves, didn't you?”  
  
Wanda could only nod.  
  
“Ah, then you could be infected with a lethal alien virus that kills painfully and lets you hover above the ground after your death. That scared the living daylights out of these campers.” She laughed nervously. “But don't worry, we have an anti-serum.”  
  
How comforting. This woman was evidently very familiar with supernatural and alien occurrences - even though her virus-theory had no merit in this case, as the murder was clearly done by magic - , which could only mean that she belonged to that organization Wanda was not very keen to meet again. She had dodged contact with them for quite some time, and even if making contact with S.H.I.E.L.D. would eventually lead her to Clint Barton, the danger of being locked up was just too high for her taste. Also, it was unlikely that they would let it slide that she had just vanished under their noses, and thus violating her “parole”. Being found at a crime scene wasn’t going to end well for her either. She had to silently thank Agatha for insisting that her apprentice dressed prim and proper, even if she had to help things along at times – the outfit was enough to make Fair Lady think Wanda was a S.H.I.E.L.D.-agent. The irony.  
  
Time to get out of here, and fast. Fair Lady just provided the perfect excuse to get herself out of this room. “Anyway, you should get yourself to quarantine. Oh, and get Fitz down here if you meet him, please.” Whoever Fitz was.  
  
Wanda got up slowly and smoothed her clothing. “I shall do so.” The hell she wouldn't.  
  
Getting out of the room was one thing, navigating out of an unknown building swarming with agents was quite another. In every corridor, every room she passed, however small or spacious, there was at least one walking suit, visibly armed or not. By now, she had already decided that she would resort to the oldest trick in the book: Pretending that she did belong to this place and get out in one piece.  
  
Wanda didn't want to press her luck again – Fair Lady had not only proven to be a scientist of the medical staff, not a soldier, and as such blissfully oblivious. The other people in the building would no doubt be more observant.  
  
She entertained the idea of just climbing out of a window, but the risk of being caught just outside the building in such a compromising manner was too high. Hiding was simply out of question: She was way too jumpy and wanted to escape too badly to just crawl under a rug and hold still. So, she headed for the next exit, holding her head up high and walking down the corridors with an air of implicitness and busyness around her.  
  
It all went well up until she had almost reached the door promising a free nightsky, when she passed an agent whom she took for just another walking suit. But he touched her lightly by the elbow, making Wanda almost jump.  
  
He didn't really look intimidating, to be perfectly honest. He was a middle-aged man with a nondescript face, warm eyes and receding hairline. He seemed to wear his continual slight smile exactly like he was born with it, like it was part of his personality. Even his voice was soft and non-threatening, while his words were not. “Excuse me, but you shouldn't be here.” he said in what sounded like a genuinely friendly voice, before Wanda yelped while she was grabbed from behind and a bag was put over her head.  


* * *

 

To be completely honest: There were tougher spots than being chained to a chair with a bag over the head. Wanda was one of the few people to have been in a similar situation before with good cause, but the last time the room had been tiled. This room however lacked the cold of a tiled room, while the sound of her steps had been swallowed by an unknown material when she had been brought in. It was nice to know that interrogation chambers were designed more personal these days. Plus, Wanda hadn't done anything horribly wrong this time.  
  
She had no idea how long she had been in this place. Perhaps it had only been a few minutes, perhaps half an hour or even a couple of hours. Time tended to get unpredictable when temporarily robbed of sight and forced to sit still. But all things considered, despite being captured and in a generally hopeless situation, she felt oddly upbeat.  
  
The door opened and she heard the sound of footsteps. One person put something that sounded like files on the table she was sitting at and adjusted a chair, while another person carefully removed – at long last – the bag. It took Wanda a moment to blink and get accustomed to the light in the room before she could get a look at the two people now sitting across the table. One of them was the middle-aged agent with the eternal smile she met earlier. The other man looked a little uneasy, as if not accustomed to sit in this chair. He appeared to be clean-cut and proper, with fair hair, blue eyes, and chiseled like a statue. His clothes were hopelessly out of fashion and underlined the impression that for some reason, he just tagged along and was only a spectator in this conversation. His arms remained crossed before his chest while he eyed his presumed colleague. It was the serene agent who eventually started the conversation.  
  
“Hello Ms. Maximoff. I'm glad to see you unharmed after your sudden disappearance. You had us worried for a while.”  
  
So polite, so untrue.  
  
“I'm Philip Coulson, and this ...” He gestured to the silent man beside him. “... is Captain Steve Rogers. I hope you don't mind his presence during our conversation.” The Agent started to browse through the files he brought with him without really reading them. Interestingly enough, he had a few items lying beside him along with those files – an unburned candle, some incense, a Tarot Deck and much to Wanda's amusement, a plastic Harry Potter Wand. Even more interesting were the files Agent Coulson pretended not to know: they contained even a few pictures, and from what she glimpsed, they showed mainly herself at a younger age, about ten years ago, and her surviving family. One of those pictures in particular caught her eye: It must have been shot very recently and showed her father and both her siblings – her twin brother and her half-sister - in what seemed to be one of the more carefree conversations.  
  
She had enough education in psychology to know where this was going. He wanted to apply pressure. First, he established himself to be in control, evidenced with the ease and affability he approached the conversation, at the same time letting her know that he knew everything about her that could be observed through mundane means. The next step would be a subtle reminder of her unfavorable position, followed by an offer she couldn't refuse. What puzzled her was the lack of time he spent on her, as if he was on a tight schedule. The presence of Captain Rogers, whoever he was supposed to be, was also a mystery, since this person added nothing but obvious lack of experience and slightly eroded the position of strength Agent Coulson was building up.  
  
“You are, of course, aware that your presence in a murder scene raises some questions, especially since you seem to have literally appeared out of nowhere.”  
  
Captain Rogers exchanged a glance with Coulson, trying to hide that he was taken aback by Wanda's lack of reaction. But she simply hadn't made up her mind. Her gut feeling told her that something was off, but she couldn't put her finger on it. One thing however was sure: This wasn't an interrogation, this was negotiation.  
  
“I was teleported there. I am on an errand.” Wanda finally said after a long pause in the most calm and earnest tone she could manage.  
  
The two men in front of her stared for just the shortest of moments, then shrugged simultaneously as if something like teleportation was something ordinary. The older agent frowned at his notes without making eye contact. “Care to illuminate us about the nature of your errand?”  
  
“I shall do so when I’m certain what I am dealing with.”  
  
This time, Coulson examined her closely, before seemingly reading the files again. “Teleport … that’s something new since you first made contact with us in Chicago. Nasty incident. Let’s see what happened since then.” The eternal slight smile never left Agent Coulson's face while he pretended to read complete news in the files before him. “After the incident in Chicago you were put under the observation of Agent Victoria Hand. Loads of complaints here … you drive ten percent faster than allowed ...”  
  
Traffic had to flow somehow.  
  
“... if you are driving at all, that is. Most of the time, you skip on the tickets for public transportation.”  
  
Political boycott. The prices for buses were outrageous and were raised regardless of inflation.  
  
“You … kissed a statue in the dead of night?” Coulson raised his eyebrows quizzically. Surprisingly enough, this question was answered by the military guy beside the agent who peered over his shoulder into the files.  
  
“The goosemaid in Göttingen, isn’t it? Medical students do that usually after the exams, and sometimes shortly before. You know,  for luck.” He managed even a slight grin in Wanda's direction. “They did that even in my time.”  
  
“Which leads us to the greatest crimes of all.” Coulson announced in a faux-grave voice. “Trolling on the internet.”  
  
It had to be done.  
  
“This all doesn't tell me how you vanish for over a year without a trace and then pop up in a crime scene. Care to explain?” Coulson however looked undeterred and patient.  
  
This was a farce. Judging from the body she found, the murders had taken place several hours before she had been found. She knew that. He knew that. He didn't suspect her of murder, or this conversation would have taken a very different turn from the beginning. Wanda decided not to call Coulson out on it and instead cut to the chase.  
  
“I have lost much today.” She originally wanted to look and sound professional and clinical, but she was unable to hide a certain melancholic undertone, however hard she tried. “If you help me, I will give you whatever answers I have. They may be the answers you seek.”  
  
Agent Coulson wanted to ask something, but surprisingly, it was Captain Rogers who now raised his head and interrupted the conversation with one single question. “Is magic real?”  
  
Both Coulson and Wanda paused a moment to stare at him, like he just had broken the rules. In a way, he had. Within an interrogation the questioning person only changed when the detainee was to be unsettled or upset. Agent Coulson at this stage would have attempted to do the opposite, so this part most likely wasn't planned. But Rogers didn't know and most likely didn't care much. Wanda was still a bit taken aback when she answered as truthfully as she could.  
  
“Very much so.”

  
The reaction of both men was peculiar, as they didn’t even bat an eye, like they did before at the mention of teleportation. It seemed as much as they accepted and shrugged it off instead of questioning her sanity. It was odd to see someone being told about something that fundamental and then treat it like being told that pinapple made a good ingredient for curry. They were just that hard-boiled.  
  
Agent Coulson scribbled a few notes in his files that didn’t look like he was writing something like “completely bonkers, transfer to psych ward”, but more like he really believed the information he had just been given. Weird. The Captain seemed more interested than surprised as well, and this was also the moment he took the initiative, stood up, walked over to her and relieved her of those pesky handcuffs. He then sat down, his face deadly serious, but patient. “How?”  
  
The complete lack of surprise and disbelief still had Wanda a little perplexed, but tried to at least appear like she was confident. “Let me ask it this way … judging from your rank, you are military, aren't you? Were there ever occurrences in your line of work that were bordering on the fantastical, or at least hard to explain?”  
  
The Captain seemed to be half-amused by this question, but his blooming smile withered into a grimace. “Do serum-induced super-strength, glowing cubes, portals and lightning-shooting hammers count?”  
  
“Oh dear.” This short list made Wanda smile slightly. It became awfully apparent now why this Captain Rogers was part of this conversation – he was obviously clued in, which was strange for a man from the military. “Well, you are armed with the powers of science and reason. A few of these things like the serum can be explained ...”  
  
“Body-redesign via serum was purely medical and the tesseract was just a big energy source. How does this connect to the concept of magic?”  
  
Wanda shook her head. “You are correct about the medical nature of the serum, but I have to object about the tesseract just being an energy source. I have only heard about the tesseract, but from what I understand, it is more like powerful focus … “ She stopped herself from further speculating and thus wasting more time. Instead, she folded her hands as if in prayer, but her palms never touched. “Would you mind doing the same?” The Captain, obviously more curious than baffled complied, while the agent observed with an interested look on his face. “What you feel is warmth, which is, by its very definition, energy. As long as you live, you are emitting energy. This is science. It gets weird when people are able to focus energy like this into something more substantiated, when warmth becomes heat and heat sets aflame. It is a line that can be called magical, but it is still science.”  
  
“That's true.” Agent Coulson added, turning to the pensive Captain for his explanation. “There have been several instances of people we call “Gifted”, and sometimes mutants. We haven't quite isolated it, but it seems to be a genetic mutation that allows that kind of emission, energy manipulation and the like ...”  
  
“Being one of those people ...” Wanda interrupted just a bit too eager. “ … and medically oriented, genetics are a pet passion of mine. The problem with mutations are that they may be dominant in the genetic make-up, but are ultimately an isolated and random case that spreads. “Gifted” however appear in all corners of the world in unrelated cases without any conceivable pattern. So, in my humble opinion, it seems to me like a form of development, in short: Evolution.”  
  
“We can discuss that.” Rogers answered in an amiable manner before he and his colleague could get bored. He also looked a bit to simply cut Wanda off. “Just … another time, alright?”  
  
“Right, sorry.” She was determined not to get carried away again. “So, we have established that most of the supernatural encountered can be explained away by the rules of chance, psychology, suggestion, genetics, medical formulas, science all the same. The mind is such a formidable thing, sharp as a weapon if used properly. This mind ...” She tapped her own temple lightly and spoke slowly to carry the weight of her statement. “might be cracked, but I'm far from crackers. I know the simple truth you seek, that there are things and people that defy science to the point of affront. There are places in this world where science isn't allowed to trade, where things just are and can't be explained and the possibilities are infinite. These are realms of the unexplainable, the unbelievable, the mystery incarnate and infinite potential. These are the places where I dwell.”  
  
Wanda exchanged one look with the Agent when she reached for the Tarot Deck, and receiving the slightest of nods, started to shuffle the cards while she started to explain. “Science carries us far and wide, even through what claims to be magic. Take these cards – someone who will claim it’s magic without being magical will prey upon what you are prepared to believe, what you want to hear. The cards are designed to fit into the situation, the explanations phrased vaguely so that everything you want to believe is served. I can guarantee you that I can make a character reading that would be true for the three of us. But add a single spark and these cards can really provide answers.” She channeled just the tiniest bit of what she could do into the cards, knowing fully well that the probability of a proper reading would dramatically increase. She was also aware of the scarlet glow she emitted from her hand while doing so; it sometimes looked a little like gaseous blood streaks … it looked quite gross, and from the look of both of the men, they thought the same.  
  
“Ask one question, dear sirs, but keep it simple if you please. Also, yes-or-no-questions are preferred.”  
  
Captain Rogers was simply quicker, flat and grim. “Who killed Dr. Banner?”  
  
So much for simplicity. Wanda didn't know any Dr. Banner, but it was almost overwhelming how important this issue was for the Captain. She did spare him a scrutinizing glance, muttered a warning that there were no names on the cards, shuffled again for good measure and put the cards on the table, noticing that every card that was even remotely catastrophic was within the batch she had to read. “The Death card means that he was killed by a person who has undergone a dramatic change recently. The Nine Swords mean that the murderer suffers horribly.” She tried to connect the meaning of the cards to the best of her ability, although divination really wasn't her strongest suit, let alone something vague like Tarot. “He loves something more than his life … oh. And if I read this correctly, he is about to die or already dead at this point.”  
  
Agent Coulson seemed a little disappointed. “That doesn't tell us much.”  
  
“It's Tarot. There's only so much truth to be squeezed out of it.” Wanda shrugged. “If you have a question that doesn't need to be oracled, I'm happy to oblige. If that would be all?”  
  
Coulson quickly interceded. “One second … are the murders in the ORNC and the disappearance of Dr. Banner connected?”  
  
It took only a few cards to be laid down to answer that question. “Most definitely, which doesn't make your job easier. From the wounds I've seen, you are dealing with a mage.”  
  
To Wanda's surprise, the agent really wrote that down, which was not only old-fashioned, but also astoundingly open-minded concerning her little reading, perhaps even a bit gullible. He never lost his friendly demeanor although he talked strictly business with her now. “If I understand correctly, your continued cooperation would come at a cost.”  
  
“Get me in touch with Agent Barton, please.” She couldn’t believe this was happening. She had to be careful not to overdo it, but for the first time in her life, she was able to dictate terms with this organization without the Chicago incident being rubbed in. She also needed to relay her message to a certain Asgardian, but suspected she would do that better on her own or with Clint's help. “Apart from that, I would appreciate not to be bothered and won't be a bother in return. Is that acceptable?”  
  
Agent Coulson certainly looked as if he would agree without further ado, but before he could open his mouth, the Captain interrupted quickly, his expression not pensive anymore, but resolved and even somewhat enthusiastic.  
  
“I've got a better idea. Need a job?”

 


	5. Sans Voir

“This project has officially gone to hell.“  
  
Natasha Romanoff didn't comment on the voice in her earpiece while she stared on the computer screen before her. Download was at twenty percent and all she had to do was wait. Her colleagues would have to clean the lower level; she had now time on her hands to be adequately annoyed that her cover had been blown after just two days of infiltration.  
  
With a resigned sigh, she moved aside the unconscious body of the CEO of the company to gain better access to his computer. The old man didn't even stir. All his brilliance, his ruthless streak and head for business were something that Natasha might have respected, if he hadn't been been dangerous and engaged in illegal activities to the point where S.H.I.E.L.D considered him a threat. But she wasn't going to work with him now, although part of her had been looking forward to it. Instead of subtle espionage, this project had turned into butchery. This wasn't how it was done. An infiltration job was long-term work which paid off best if no one noticed that something was gone, that blueprints, prototypes and drafts were copied right under their noses and that the secretary or cleaning personnel were suddenly gunning for a new job. This kind of work wasn't glamorous, but if done right, it was effective and tended to leave few dead bodies, not to mention the lack of post-processing and cover-up Fury had to do now that he had let his people charge in.  
  
Download at twenty-eight percent. That was slow.  
  
It was the most frustrating thing: she and nobody else was the reason for this failure of a mission. It should have been routine, but someone had recognized her as a participant in the Battle of Manhattan as a “heroine”. What a curious word. That was the downside of doing work openly – sooner or later, one was recognized for better or worse. In her case, it effectively killed the role she was trained for all her life, the one thing she excelled in: Being a spy and infiltrator.  
  
Her work was about being notorious, not recognizable, about being efficient and not a famous idol. She was no heroine. She would never be one. And yet, being a heroine had ruined her day, not to mention her current work.  
  
“Got something for you, Natasha.” Whatever her teammate's cheery demeanor suggested, it couldn't be good. But to her mild surprise, music cut into her ear. Initially, she wanted to follow her first instinct and chastise her colleague about unprofessional behavior, but then she listened more closely. That was opera, no less. Smooth, serene, excellent soprano … it was exquisite, to be completely honest. Carol Danvers seemed to sense her fascination even over the radio and couldn't leave it uncommented.  
  
“Believe it or not, it's Berlioz. You didn't see that coming, huh?”  
  
Natasha allowed herself just the hint of an amused smile. “Opera isn't everyone's cup of tea.”  
  
“Yeah, but it might be yours. Aria's called Nuit paisbibblething or something, in case you want to research that later. Thought you could use a little cheering up. By the way, did you know that Sharon started to joke about our little trio? Fury's Angels, she said. More like Amazon Brigade...”  
  
“Carol?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I'd like to listen to some opera.” Even though Natasha kept her voice in a dry and flat, but her mood had improved a little, which she didn't mask. She could almost hear her colleague smile, which was to be expected given her carefree and sporting nature. The download would take a while, the director of this company was still lying unconscious with his head on the table while her fellow agents made sure she was undisturbed. Natasha spared the man on the desk a last, scrutinizing glance, only to notice him stirring slowly. Sloppy. One quick, precise Chuto Strike against the carotid artery and he fell unconscious, this time for good.  
  
When she concluded that he was indeed not waking up anytime soon, then turned towards the window. So strange. She had visited Lyon before, but in all this time, she had never took the time to enjoy the vista. But now, now she could relax, listen to some good music and savor the view; and Lyon at dusk was a spectacular sight indeed, one that even she could appreciate on an aesthetic level. The setting sun basked the buildings in golden radiance, mirrored in the Saône. Autumn was arriving with heavy steps, yet a gentle, warm breeze and bright skies with few clouds remained. In Europe, they didn't build their structures as high up as in the US, so she could even make out the shapes of the pedestrians. All of them had their own history, their own path. Most of them were probably returning home from work right now.  
  
 _Just return home – that's not for me._ She breathed deeply. Her job for the day was done, but it wasn't done well. It wasn't satisfactory at all to settle for so little when she thought she could attain more. There was nothing that could be done about it right now. For now, she settled for a nice view.  
  
She was so deep in thought, she almost didn't notice the sunlight reflection of the sniper's scope's lens.  
  
Well-honed reflexes kicked in and she rolled quickly to to cover, away from the large window and just in time before the glass shattered into thousands of pieces. Natasha didn't hear the shot, but the flying shards of glass and the gust of wind from the broken window spoke loud enough of the snipers action. She didn't concern herself with something so pesky as fear, instead, her mind worked flawlessly. There was just a small time window before the sniper could reload, so took a quick look out of the window, giving up her cover temporarily to verify the position of the assassin. But when she looked out of the window, checking the last location where she saw the reflection of the scope.  
  
Then, the second shot fell.  
  
Oddly enough, it wasn't aimed on her. Instead, she saw the shape of a man falling down from the building where she first had spotted the approaching danger. Her instincts told her to get into cover quickly, but her mind processed the data given much faster. The assassin fell from the roof of the other building, meaning the shot that killed him must have come from behind. Guessing the angle used for both shots was a simple work of math and led to a quick conclusion: The second sniper was way out of sight for her.  
  
She could see that down below, there was a commotion building where the person that had meant to kill her had fallen. But he was most certainly dead now, shot by another person who must have shadowed him, given the angle and timing of the shot.  
  
That man down below had wanted to kill her. Another sniper shot him down. Normally, she would assume that one of her colleagues had done his job in watching her, but she was in charge of this operation and knew for a fact that nobody was. The CEO of the company hadn't been the target, as a quick glance told her immediately. He was alive, well and asleep, and if he had been the target, he would have been dead for sure.  
  
Conclusion: She had been the target.  
  
There were a lot of people who wanted to kill her and precious few who actually protected her. Who was the second sniper? Who sent him? It was no agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., that much was certain. For the first time in her life, she didn't know who thought her life precious enough to protect. How odd … just now she noticed that the opera music from earlier was still playing.  
  
What game was played here? And more importantly: What were the rules?  
  


* * *

 

Either this mirror was somehow less flattering than a mirror should be, or Wanda really didn't look so good. The dark circles under her eyes were only highlighted through her ghastly pale complexion. Her hair wasn't in the mood to fall into place either and the scratched eyebrow wasn't helping the first impression. She looked into that mirror and saw an exhausted woman with dishevelled black hair. To add insult to injury, her roots were showing.  
  
Well, there was nothing that could be done about it now. With a resigned sigh, Wanda tied her hair back and started to treat her tiny injury. Through the mirror she could see the young brunette with dark eyes that had been grilling her with questions for the last few minutes. The woman, supposedly an Agent, looked starry-eyed and very enthusiastic, which Wanda thought exhausting, but also somewhat adorable.  
  
“Okay.” Dark Eyes said, still giddy like a child and entirely oblivious of the fact that she was standing in the medical compartment turned morgue of a huge plane and therefore kind of disturbing any research. “Now that we have established that magic is real and I can dish out a lot of 'told you so's to a lot of people … what can you do with it?”  
  
Wanda started washing her hands, a process that would take several minutes since she intended to work on body parts. She looked to Captain Rogers pleadingly, but he just stood in the back of the room, his arms crossed before his chest and shrugged, the hint of an impish smile basically saying ‘You’re own your own’. Fair Lady was in the room as well, but she was apparently busy with the microscope, her back turned to the room.  
  
So she sighed and answered dutifully. “I change probability and am schooled in a few basic rituals.”  
  
Dark Eyes' expression froze, likely from disappointment. “Rituals? Like pentacles, cauldrons and stuff like that?”  
  
“No.” Wanda answered patiently while she continued to wash her hands. “I'm not a Wiccan. I can do wards, divination and a few protective circles. I was schooled by a classic english sorceress, so I use a mixture of celtic, kabbalistic and christian elements in my magic rituals. But that's really not my forte, to be completely honest.”  
  
“Yeah, you change probability.” Dark Eyes looked like her bad case of fangirling was crushed right in this moment. “That means you can hex people with bad luck.” She paused a moment. “That sounds kind of weak. Aren't you supposed to be, like, super powerful?”  
  
“Oh?” Wanda looked up, slightly amused. “Why do you think so?”  
  
The young woman looked like this was self-evident. “With you being Magneto's daughter and everyone being worked up about you, you ought to pack some punch, don't you think?”  
  
Wanda turned and looked the other woman right into the eyes, her gaze intense, her voice grave. “What are the chances of you getting a heart attack right now? I imagine the chance leans towards zero, but it's never completely zero. Imagine someone can't control his own powers and tips the balance … what happens then? It would be an accident, a case of bad luck of epic proportions.”  
  
To her credit, Dark Eyes wasn't as creeped out as Wanda expected her to be. She stood silently, frowning and processing what she had just been told. It had not been a threat, but a matter of fact, as Wanda had experienced in a bitter, bitter fashion. When she was young, she wasn't able to control much of her powers and often accidentally fired them off. Suffice to say that she had caused a lot of damage, if involuntarily.  
  
It was Captain Rogers who finally broke the silence with a quiet question. “Who's Magneto?”  
  
Dark eyes was quick to answer, even a little eager, as if one of her favourite topics had been addressed. “He and his goons are about the only people with supernatural powers the media could ever get their hands on. Terrorist, persona non grata in about every state, Assassin, murdered at least two presidents and practices a mean game of freakin' car fu.” She paused dramatically. “With his mind.”  
  
Captain Rogers furrowed his brow, and Wanda couldn't tell if it was disapproval or lacking comprehension. Also, she was a little ashamed, now that her father was exposed and somehow wanted to make him sound a bit less evil, if that was even possible. So she opted for a dead neutral tone. “Magnetokinesis. He manipulates magnetic fields, which is just another kind of energy projection. We talked about this during the interrogation.”  
  
The young woman beamed at her. “That sounds fancy.”  
  
Wanda allowed herself a wry smile. “It does, doesn't it? I like car fu, though.”  
  
“Sorry to interrupt …” Rogers said supressing a smile as if infected by the positive mood whiplash. “But you used to be part of his organization, right? What happened?”  
  
The smile on Wanda's face died, and she shook off the bad memories that came with this question. “Hawkeye.” She responded, honest, sincere and again deadly serious. “If you don't mind, I would like to avoid this subject.”  
  
Captain Rogers didn't hesitate a second, but inclined his head in a gesture of respect that left Wanda nonplussed. He then turned his head to Dark Eyes, who seemed a bit bubbly like a child at Christmas. He told her in a friendly voice “They are about to perform an autopsy.”  
  
“Right.” She said, while stepping closer to him, and out of nowhere, touched his chest. Her hand rested there while she looked like a diehard artist that was allowed to touch the Mona Lisa. She quickly pulled her hand away, her smile adorable. “Sorry. Had to make sure this was all real.” She touched him again, this time briefly. “Wow, it's like a Michelangelo.” She blushed fiercely. “I will … uhm, stop talking. And run to my room and crawl under a carpet. Excuse me, guys.” And with these words, she fled the medical cabin, leaving an astonished Rogers, a thoroughly amused Wanda and a silent Fair Lady who pretended hard that she didn't hear a thing.   
  
“So …” Wanda stretched the word to gain a little more time for phrasing her next words more carefully. But Captain Rogers struck her as a straightforward guy, so she opted for a more direct approach. “Who are you, exactly?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Wanda chose her words carefully and wasn't shy to seek eye contact with him. “You said that my presence would be kept secret to the higher levels of S.H.I.E.L.D. to avoid any trouble, yet you were able to offer to hire me anyway. Either you are very high-level yourself or you are someone independent.” She eyed him carefully, patiently waiting for his answer.

  
Now he looked a little embarrassed, as he rubbed his neck in a helpless gesture. “I'm … uh, Captain America.” He looked like he was aware there was no chance whatsoever not to make that line sound corny. Wanda froze immediately, though. That fellow there was the famous hero of World War II? He made quite the commotion in the news and in the world of medical science when he was finally sawed out of that glacier. She didn’t believe even half the myths surrounding him, but somehow, she still found herself stiffening and hoping that she didn't make a fool out of herself. She had heard however of the ideal he represented, but seriously doubted that anyone could live up to that.  
  
“Oh dear.” She said, and now it was her turn to rub her neck nervously. She glanced at her wet fingers, suddenly remembering that she had them scrubbed in preparation for an autopsy, and now had to start all over again. She inwardly cursed her carelessness and started to wash her hands again. But while she did, she realized that right now, the situation made even less sense. “I'm very sorry for your loss.” She said sincerely. “I understand that the subject in question is one of your teammates. But why on earth would you have me, of all people, examine him?”  
  
To her surprise, Steve Rogers didn't hesitate. “I'm out of options. Medical examiners, Biochemists, Physicists and Investigators of any kind have worked on this case and nobody has turned up anything I can work with. You represent the only legitimate source on the occult I can find. Perhaps you can offer another point of view.” He grimaced. “It sounded less desperate in my head.” The whole man straightened, his whole demeanor a picture of sincerity. “Also, Barton trusts you with his life and he doesn't give his trust lightly. You must have done something to deserve it. Good enough for me.”  
  
For a moment, Wanda was stunned, her heart warmed by the trust he put in Clint's judgement, and to an extent, in her. She blinked a few times “You don't think I'm insane? Because, that wouldn't be far off, as you know.”  
  
“I think you believe in magic. In my experience, belief is nothing insane. Belief is strength.” He said honestly, a slight smile on his face. “There are weird and fantastic things out there. I think you and I are part of them. The only difference I can see is that I was injected with a serum and you were born with it.”  
  
Wanda was speechless. Her whole life, she had been someone different, someone strange – she had either been one of a pair of twins, or a freak of nature, someone who went on raids with her father to free fellow gifted on Weekends and trying to return to school on Mondays, the woman under surveillance, the witch from the outside world ... and this man just told her that she was a new kind of normal, just like that. Agatha had said something similar once, as she now remembered vividly. This time, she felt tears in the corner of her eyes and had to blink them away.  
  
Fortunately, Rogers either hadn't seen her reaction or graciously pretended not to notice, while he continued. “I don't want you to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. I want you to work for Tony Stark. Frankly, we need independent personnel to solve this murder and you are as independent as one can get.”  
  
Wanda had managed to regained her composure as she turned to him and nodded, appearing as professional and detached as she could. “We shall see.” She checked the band-aid one last time, then put on surgical gloves. She had already donned a lab coat, so there was no excuse to delay any longer. The irony; she hated nothing more than autopsies and there she was. She hadn't even glanced in the general direction of the corpse and she already felt a little nauseous, how embarrassing. Not wanting to show any more of her discomfort, she squared her shoulders and walked straight to the table on which the subject lay, concealed by a white shroud. She could hear the footsteps of Captain Rogers behind her, which wasn't surprising. He was a hard-boiled soldier and wanted answers, so that he peered over her shoulder was logical.  
  
“Don't you need any surgical instruments?” He asked warily. Wanda had to restrain herself not to bitterly smile at his question.  
  
“I will not open him up again if it is not necessary. I'm not here for that, you have more able coroners at hand. I am here to answer questions like 'Why isn't he radiating Gamma emissions?'. Considering his predicament, he should radiate a lot of it.” Without further ado, she pulled the shroud from the subject.  
  
The subject was, indeed, just a head. But what a monstrous head, inhumanly large and discoloured. She had seen the pictures in the record beforehand, but that was then. Now, it seemed much more real, and much more strange at the same time. But more than the head before her, she noticed the subtle signs that she had to look out for. It wasn't really visible, but she was positive that this head was practically oozing with magic, magic that made her really uncomfortable and increased the feeling of nausea. She stood there for a minute, unmoving, just staring at the silent head that told her so much. It was hard to convince her body to move again and cover the head again with the shroud, but the feeling it had caused didn't recede just because it was out of sight. It was still there, as poisonous as it would ever be.  
  
After three deep breaths, she finally managed to comment on that. “By the winds of … did you see that? Never mind, you didn't. But did you smell that?” But the Captain just looked at her quizzically.  
  
“Smelled what?”  
  
“Cinnamon.” She exclaimed with a little more enthusiasm than she had originally intended. All in all, she had thought herself to be shaken by this spectacular display of magic by one head alone, but she felt more agitated. She would contemplate about the oddity of this another time. For now, she threw off her gloves and rushed to the console searching through the files.  
  
Rogers let out a small, nervous laugh. “Hold on, I don't follow. What are you searching for and what's with the cinnamon?”  
  
Wanda stopped in her work and looked at him apologetically. “I'm sorry, it's hard to explain.”  
  
“Try me. I might surprise you.”  
  
She took a moment to collect herself. “Someone has pumped a large amount of magic in this head with brute force. This causes slight side-effects that are perceivable, but highly individualistic. For me, it's linked to a memory I connect with cinnamon, therefore it smells like cinnamon for me. Whoever did this wasn't really subtle, otherwise it wouldn't have been so obvious to me. Anyway, the real question is: Was your friend killed with magic or is that head just a magic construct? I can discern this, as such a thing would lead to certain chemicals or bioeletrical impulses being created.” She turned the display to Captain Rogers, who was looking intently, but most likely couldn't do much with the information in the toxicological report, while Wanda continued to explain. “I don't know exactly what I'm searching for, I only know that I will know it when I see it. It would have been something that your coroner must have found slightly off, but not that strange given the circumstances.”  
  
Captain Rogers was obviously letting all she said sink in. “Let me see if I get this straight: Someone has either killed Banner with magic or made a copy of his head and delivered it to us? Why?”  
  
“I’d like to hear your theory on this.”  
  
Rogers responded with a small smile, while she continued searching through the records. “If I was a wizard with the power to kill the Hulk at my fingertips ...” He mused. “Why kill the Hulk? He's tough and dangerous, but killing him would demoralize the enemy. I deliver his head to them and watch them panic because I just told them “Hey, I can kill the strongest of you”. Sound strategy, but why don't I kill the rest of them? Perhaps the Hulk was something special and my magic could hit only him and no one else.”  
  
She hadn't considered that. It was not the first time in this cabin that he had surprised her.  
  
“Next scenario: I let my enemy know that I've killed the Hulk but in reality I haven't. That would make much more sense. Perhaps Banner was sedated. I bet the Hulk is much easier to sedate than kill.”  
  
“I wouldn't get my hopes too high concerning Dr. Banner, but as for the head being a fake: That's exactly what I thought. “ Wanda didn't take her gaze off the screen. She just hoped that he didn't expect too much or let his wish for Dr. Banner being alive become an expectation. Rogers continued in a tone that suggested professional expertise.  
  
“Here's the thing with demoralization: you only do it to people to let them make mistakes 'cause you need their mistakes. It seems like we're dangerous to whoever that guy in the shadows is.” She had finished the report anyway and his thesis piqued her interest. He seemed in a brighter mood now.  
  
“So … that makes you feel better?” She asked.  
  
“That means that the other guy fears us. That also means that we have a chance to win this in the end. That's more than I had a minute ago.” He smiled benignly. “Unless that guy's just completely batshit and messing with our heads. Then we're screwed.”  
  
“I hadn't considered the tactics of it. I just saw a heinous act.” Wanda contemplated, sparing a small smile to his theory about the madness of the potential enemy. Even after all what happened today, he made a fair point. There was still hope as long as there was room to maneuver, as it proved that simple invasion wouldn't do it. Perhaps that's what Agatha thought as well and perhaps she was doing just that: maneuvering. As long as there was the need from either side to maneuver, nothing was lost. “I hadn't thought about it that way.” She murmured more to herself than to him.  
  
“Magic's nothing you can explain, right? Then you of all people should know that there's more to the world than just crisis and catastrophe. Once in a while, there's a miracle as well.”  
  
“I imagine.” Wanda chuckled. “I mean, look at you.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Yes, you. Although your medical files are locked up tight, there are a few facts about you. You were injected with a serum that amplified your physical characteristics, made you athletic and more durable. That would only be accomplished by hyperstimulating the metabolism, which should be a large strain on the body. Also, going on these extreme levels of physical extortion means that your muscles …” She patted his forearm playfully with the back of her hand. “ … should have been liquified. I have theorized this in my Bachelor Thesis: Your body should have been burned out a long time ago, and yet here you are. And I'm not even talking about your stay in the ice ...”  
  
“Wait a sec.” Rogers interrupted with a disbelieving look on his face. “You wrote your Bachelor Thesis about me?” Oh dear. That was embarrassing. Very embarrassing, she could feel herself blushing like a maiden. She needed to talk her way out of this, fast.  
  
“No! Not really, no. Not … precisely. It was about, uh … you know, muscly things. You were an example, of sorts.” She stuttered, making only a bigger fool out of herself. That conversation had just changed from insightful and even pleasant to the point where she could feel her cheeks burn, something that hadn't happened for a very long time. Would telling him that she wasn't a mad scientist, stalker, fan or whatever really cut it? Doubtful. There was only one way to get out of this: change of topic, now!  
  
“Say, do you play chess? You must be good at it.” She asked him abruptly, following the next best impulse she could muster. There was an uncomfortable pause after her sudden question, but thankfully, Rogers seemed more amused than creeped out and generously let her drop the subject.  
  
“Not really, no. Should I?”  
  
“Definitely. You have a tactical mind, no? That's a very good start.” She still felt a little flustered. Also, this was as good an opportunity as any to get on with her assignment. For a while, she went through the files, which was no small task indeed. Before, she had only had access to the toxicological report, now there where analyses from various Hulk-samples to examine. At one point, she felt the warm hand of Captain Rogers on her shoulder while he muttered a quick “I'll be right back” and left the room. Someone else entered, but Wanda was too caught up in her work.  
  
At last, she found the clue she had been looking for, but when she turned around, she only saw Fair Lady in the laboratory. “Um ...” Wanda asked. “Did you just stash the Hulk in a box?”  
  
“Oh yes.” She beamed, being her usual enthusiastic self. “For transportation, of course.”  
  
“I think it's morbid, too.” The sound of Captain Rogers' voice came from the door, so Wanda turned, only to see him in full Captain America-outfit, which looked a lot less cheesy in natura than on the TV-screen. In fact, this stately man looked like he was born in this uniform, wore it with ease and confidence. This confidence wavered when he noticed that Wanda stared at him and despite his discomfort, waited patiently until he had her attention. “Found something?”  
  
“Indeed. There's a variance in the cellular mesh of the white matter in the Medulla spinalis … “ She stopped herself, phrasing it in layman's terms. “There's something off in the spinal marrow. I think there's a spell active, but I've never seen anything like this. I'd like to seek a second opinion on this matter.” It took a deep breath before she was sure that the information she was about to present wasn't something overly sensitive concerning the magic communities. “There's an occult investigator in New York. He's legitimate, I've worked with him before on the defence against soul mirrors. Anyway, I think he could help. I can ward the head until then.”  
  
Captain Rogers nodded slowly. “That actually fits with our plans. Say, do you believe in destiny?”  
  
What an odd question, but the answer was so simple. “More than anything else.”  
  
He nodded again, but this time, there was this slightly impish smile again. “There's another reason I wanted you to investigate this matter. You see, I have a mission in a few minutes ...” He shouldered a bag with the Hulk-box, and now Wanda noticed that he was wearing some sort of backpack and his shield. “Follow me.” It was a request, not a command, but Wanda followed him anyway through the plane, followed by Fair Lady into the cargo area of the plane. Much to her surprise, there were no less than two cars parked there, which both she and the Captain passed. Agent Coulson stood there, unimpressed by the open cargo doors and the violent winds then came with them. Outside were no clouds, just the clear night sky. Coulson wore his eternal smile, as he offered the Captain his hand and shouted. “ETA 15 seconds. It has been a pleasure, sir, as always.”  
  
“Likewise!” Rogers shouted back with a grin, squeezed the offered hand and then turned to Wanda, who was busy keeping her blowing hair out of her sight. “I think it's destiny when my next mission is in a city my friend’s friend knows well.”  
  
It couldn't be … there were only two cities in this whole world that she knew with her heart. One was New Salem, the other one was the city she grew up in. “Köln ...” Her whisper was deafened by the howling winds. It was in this moment when the Captain grabbed her and she yelped the second time on this day. But this time it was because she was dragged out of a plane by a man into a free fall high over the city of Cologne.


	6. Albin Countergambit

 

“Sorry.” Steve Roger's voice sounded a bit sheepish even over the howling winds and Wanda was sure that his tone was mirrored by his facial expression. She wouldn't know for sure, however, since she was far too busy clinging to the man for her dear life.  
  
That guy was completely nuts! He had jumped out of a flying plane, the box with the head of Bruce Banner at his hip and a witch in his arms. No security measures, no second parachute, not strapping everyone together. Just like that. When Wanda had stopped her rather ignoble screaming, he had at least used his parachute. She realized at this moment that parachuting wasn’t like she had always imagined it, gliding through the air and floating to the ground like a feather. It was instead fast and had more a feel to it like soaring like a leaf, completely at the mercy of strong winds and being in danger of becoming a rock every second and fall to oblivion.  
  
Eventually, it occurred to her that she wouldn't fall. The Captain held her tightly, not afraid, but secure, better than any straps he could have used. He was absolutely sure of himself, and his sense of security made Wanda feel more safe in return. She could now look over his shoulder to watch the clear night sky in all its glory and starry majesty. She was still afraid that she might fall, but that fear along with the beautiful scene of the sky and the invigorating feeling of strong winds pulling at her clothes and hair was something oddly enjoyable. It went so far that she even regretted the sight of buildings and at last, the gentle tap when both the Captain and her finally landed.  
  
“Sorry.” Rogers said again, releasing her from his grip and letting her walk a few steps like a drunken giraffe. “I'll warn you next time?” His attempt to grin apologetically could be heard while Wanda was busy staring at the ground and try to collect herself. She could be angry with the Captain to be taken off-guard so thoroughly, but to his credit, the adrenalin rush was somewhat enjoyable as well. There was even a small part of her that wouldn't mind doing something like that again, but she shushed that part inwardly.  
  
“I'm fine.” It was a stammer, but her voice steadied itself as Wanda straightened herself and looked around. She knew this part of her hometown. It was one of the exits of the central station of Cologne, a place with lots of open space which was kept squeaky clean with an almost militant fervour. But this paled in the presence of the towering cathedral, its walls dark and foreboding, and even in the dark the delicate gothic adornments could be seen gracing the stony surface. In the light of the sheer size and magnificence of this cathedral, one felt small and insignificant.  
  
Wanda knew this place well. Even in daylight, this gigantic building was a monument of dark beauty. When she was young, she had at first sometimes visited after school to marvel in the feeling of bathing in greatness. When she grew older, she came into the cathedral to watch people, tourists, artists and children in their visits. She had never regretted the experience, and now Captain Rogers had brought her here. Why?  
  
“We have a situation at the central station. Escort to extraction point, and there could be trouble.” He said, reading the expression of her face like an open book.”I need to secure the perimeter around the station. You could come with me, but I’d rather …”  
  
“The cathedral.” Wanda said, her gaze still transfixed on the gigantic building. “I’ll be in the cathedral. I would only hinder your mission if you had to protect a non-combatant like me.” She didn’t care much for his mission or for the organization behind it, but she didn’t wish them harm either. Her faith had faltered over the years and she didn’t really practice her religion, but she felt safe in the cathedral nonetheless. On deep breath later she looked Rogers deep in the eyes, all her sincerity laid on her words. “I won’t go anywhere until you pick me up. On that, you have my solemn word.”His features hardened into a stark expression and he nodded, stiff and formal.  
  
“I’ll take care of your friend in the meantime.” Wanda referred to the box that contained the remains of Dr. Banner, her voice and demeanor gentle and empathic. Medical staff usually used a lot of black humour to deflect the morbid turns of their profession, and she had been no different even as a medical student, but it would be bad taste to resort to that now facing a friend of the deceased Banner.  
  
He wordlessly placed the box before and straightened his shoulders. He looked for a moment as if he wanted to say something, but was obviously undecided what to say - that he would pick her up later, that this would take only a minute, that he appreciated it, perhaps even a mild threat as not to abuse his and Clint Barton’s trust. But he just nodded again, turned around and broke into a run.  
  
When he had vanished in the darkness, Wanda eyed the box. Carrying body parts around in the middle of a city was the most morbid thing she had ever done, hands down, and yet she couldn’t even think of a good joke. Perhaps there was none to be had. Sighing heavily, she shouldered the box and walked to the cathedral.  
  
The entrance portal was only dimly illuminated by street lamps, letting shadows cloak the elaborate front of the building. Saints made of stone looked into the distance, grand, silent and aloof, radiating nobility that were hardly common for inanimate objects. In the darkness, the ornaments above the massive gate shone with golden light, made by skilled hand by artists who knew and loved their craft. It was such an easy thing to curse the door with a quick flick of the wrist to open, allowing Wanda entrance for the first time in many years.  
  
She had expected the interior to be dark as the night, but to her surprise, there were candles lit everywhere. All the majesty of the vast halls of the nave were basked in golden light, showing the bundle pillars and elegant, yet massive style of the architecture at its height. The gentle light of the candles flattered the pillars they were put on, but the light faded before it could reach the coloured windows. The sight was magnificent and beautiful, as if the spirits and saints the hall depicted were alive and shining, watchers and protectors with soft smiles and gentle hearts. Wanda’s hairs on her neck stood up when she the silent interior in awe. Was such beauty really the work of humankind? ‘Can a mortal be more righteous than a God? Can a man be more pure than his Maker?’. Not even ancient scripts knew the answer.  
  
But there was one answer to be had at this sight - these candles shouldn’t be here. Wanda knew, although her religion beckoned her more to synagogues than cathedrals. But this wasn’t right. The chandeliers were there to light the cathedral; who would have had the time and the access to light so many candles in the dead of night?  
  
Wanda left the box at the entrance and started to walk along the hall between the seat benches, her heels clicking with every step which echoed in the empty building.  
  
At the end of the hall, before the altar stood a figure, his back turned to the witch even though he certainly had heard her coming in. He stood silently and unmoving, his dark hair worn loose, his hands buried in his long coat. He looked slender and sharp-dressed, but he only turned his head in the slightest when Wanda was finally within ten feet range.  
  
“Please do nothing foolish, if you please.” He said in a casual manner, his profile showing a pale face with high cheekbones and sharp features. “My quarrel is not with you today. Leave me.”  
  
Loki.  
  
Wanda knew who he was. She had seen him on TV and Agatha had told her quite a lot about this man. He was a Frost Giant who was taken in by Odin and raised as his son, but then for reasons unknown went rogue. Agatha had always insisted that his role in the Chitauri Invasion was both over- and understated, since the media didn’t connect Loki’s stunt in Stuttgart with the incursion in New York. It was so easy to hate monsters, but when they had a face, it was harder to demonize. He might look human, but he was an alien after all, a Frost Giant from legend whom Wanda had known as Jötunn. The Jotun … she remembered Agatha’s instructions. Was he the Jotun whose steps she had to retrace? He could be. He had to be. And he was dangerous. Why was he even here, not to mention free? Suddenly and rather unsuspected, she felt anger growing in her stomach. She believed in second chances, but this man didn’t really look like he regretted the deaths he had caused. Inwardly, she told herself to calm down. He was out of her league, nothing that could be done about him.  
  
“I can’t leave.” Wanda said politely, ignoring her fear and shaking fingers while she took a step further to him. “If you don’t mind, I would like to have a chat with you.” Where she took the courage to speak up to an alien creature who had invaded her world, her home before she would never know, but the courage was there, and it was there to stay. Even when the Jotun finally turned around, she didn’t flinch, thank goodness.  
  
He wanted to say something, but he paused, looking at her with a surprised and stunned expression. Frowning, he took a few steps towards her, murmuring as if solving a riddle for himself. “I know you.” That was impossible. She had never seen this man her entire life. Wanda considered that he was simply lying to her, but his reaction felt genuine, and he didn’t gain much with this confusing reaction. “I know you.” He said again, this time a bit louder for her to hear. “You were there. But you were …” Loki paused again, shaking his head with finality. “No, you’re not. You are nothing but a shade. Nothing real, nothing haunting.” Then, with a dismissive gesture, he concluded his speech. “Run along, little bird. There are no answers for you here.”  
  
Anger surged inside her once more. This man came here, uninvited, led an army and killed her fellow humans and then had the audacity to just break into a cathedral, allegedly cramming it with candles, talked incoherent nonsense and then he just brushed her attempt to be friendly aside as if she were nothing but an annoying insect. Before she knew it and without even thinking, she gathered magic inside her and just hurled the curse at Loki, who was in the process of turning around. He just stumbled and fell to the floor, rolling down a few stairs before coming to a halt. For a moment, he looked just as baffled as she felt.  
  
In retrospect, just slapping him with a hex wasn't the smartest thing Wanda could have done. Most of the time, she was surprised what her curses actually wrought, and this time she was even more surprised that it happened at all. Stupid non-existent discipline. She hadn't even known that she had this anger inside her, and it had decided to come out at the least convenient time. Typical. She decided to chide herself later; she had started this fight, now she had to continue it.  
  
Before Loki could rise, she threw a second curse at him. This one, however, was much more refined that her first reaction, a spell that she had practiced with Agatha over and over again. Scarlet red energy gathered around her hands, gleaming sickeningly like bloodstreams in the desert sun while she focused her thoughts on the effect. Sometimes, it didn't work, but now that she had reacted, that risk was to be taken. The Jotun was hit with her curse before he could act, and he started blinking and looking around as if she wasn't visible anymore. In a way, she was.  
  
It was no invisibility per se as the common definition would have it. She had cursed Loki with a very precise and specific kind of bad luck that would just let him overlook her. His sight was still intact, he could still sense her presence, but he would just look the wrong way, as if missing the forest for the trees. Simply put, it was a kind of sensory overload that now worked to Wanda's advantage. But that did mean she had to be very careful and quiet right now.  
  
The Jotun’s answer was swift and decisive: With a swift motion of his hand, he conjured doppelgangers of himself, no less than a dozen or so to hide himself in the crowd. Wanda was sure that these were just illusionary images, but even she with her limited understanding of magic could see that they were pure perfection. Agatha had told her that Loki was a sorcerer himself, but nobody ever told her that he was amazing. She had once tried to weave an illusion like this, and it had looked like ghostly figure coloured like an old Disney movie. But Loki's illusions were indistinguishable from his own self, all of them wearing the same clothes, all of them having a different stance and different facial expressions … and all of them apparently listening intently. He was deprived of sight, so he used his others senses and, more importantly, he let her know.  
  
Wanda froze in her movement and took a moment to take in the complete and utter silence of the cathedral while she felt her blood rushing through her veins and feared that her heartbeat would give her position away. She even held her breath and noticed with a little amusement that her opponent had to have done the same. That he had called so many illusions to protect himself was a typical reaction of surprise and uncertainty; she had caught him completely off-guard and as a result, he had summoned his defenses. But why did he let her know that he was listening? Did he have another method of locating her? What was he planning?  
  
She did not dare to fire another of her definitely harmful hexbolts at him, since the volatile nature of her less practiced spells tended to produce unpredictable results, as she had learned time and time again the hard way. Loki was to be defeated, not to be hurt or, heaven forbid, even killed. But chances were that her offensive spells wouldn’t even affect him.  
  
First things first – she had to ditch her shoes. Her heels would make undesired sounds and even if she tiptoed he would certainly hear her. Furthermore, it was necessary to test how he would locate her. Was it her breath? Body heat? She had to move fast, and to do that, she had to create a distraction to slip out of her shoes and move more silently, perhaps even to run away or hide until Captain Rogers arrived. There was no shame in admitting when one was out of one’s depth.  
  
So, the witch pointed at one bench in the vicinity of the illusionary Loki horde and willed it to creak loudly, using the skills Agatha had taught her to mask the energy she emitted from her fingertips. The plan was to make a little bit of noise and kick off the shoes and sneak into hiding.  
  
It was a good plan. Unfortunately, it went wrong. Perhaps Wanda was too excited and exhausted to work her magic properly, perhaps the Jotun had done something to disrupt magic. Neither did her masking spell work, nor did the bench creak. Instead, it turned slightly green. Bugger.  
  
Loki reacted promptly, and before Wanda knew it, there were benches flying in her general direction. That guy lifted a few freaking benches with his mind! One part of her was terrified, the other grudgingly respected his skill while she tried to jump out of the way. How she had managed to slip out of her pumps nobody would ever know, she only realized that she walked on her tights. Around her, benches came crashing down, some of them splintering on impact, others missing her only by an inch while she ran, faster than she had ever run in her life.  
  
It didn't do her any good. Finally, Wanda was hit by one of the flying benches and violently hurled to the ground. She felt one or two of her ribs crack and a sharp pain in her arms and legs where she had tried to attenuate the fall. She noticed now that some of the candles nearby had fallen off and some of the wooden benches had caught fire. It was a world of hurt, and it wasn't going to get any easier.  
  
Wanda tried to crawl from under the bench when she heard Loki's footsteps. He had dismissed his illusions and moved slowly, deliberately staring at her but at the same time through her. He still couldn't see the sorceress, and that was why he was still exercising caution although she was sure he had at least heard her ribs crack. He was about to pass under the massive church organ in the midst of the little fires spreading in the cathedral when Wanda devised a desperate plan. She gestured at the organ and weaved magic into her will, hoping that she would cause some malfunction that would make a lot of noise and thus call Captain America to the rescue, or even better, scare the Jotun off.  
  
But this was not what happened. Instead, the whole plateau caved in, burying Loki under a lot of stone, debris, dust and one of the largest organs in all of Europe.  
  
For a moment, she was stunned at the fact that she had just dropped an organ on her opponent. That certainly hadn’t been her intention, but whenever she wasn’t sure what her powers would do, she was in for a surprise, for better or worse. Picking herself up and stumbling to her feet, she rushed to the debris where she could see the dark head of hair in the midst of swirling dust. The Jotun didn't stir, lying half-buried under the debris and an enormous organ, his upper body easily freed. Dust had settled in his hair, his face was pale and his lower lip had cracked open, letting a small stream of blood trickling from his mouth. Checking his vitals and making sure that the blood from the mouth was indeed just from the lip and not from internal organ damage, Wanda heard herself laugh humourlessly. She had gone head to head with a famous sorcerer in a magic duel and lived to tell the tale. More so, even if she had to wrecked a place of historical importance, she had apparently won. Won! How did that happen? How the heck had she survived this?  
  
But it wasn't over. There had been a Jotun woman in the village of New Salem, so Wanda knew that Loki would be up shortly, as his injuries didn't look that severe. There had to be a way, a fast way to restrain him before he recovered. Looking around, Wanda realized that a few small fires had started and that they would spread shortly, and they were already making breathing difficult. There was little time to get them both and Dr. Banners remains out of here. When she looked at the floor, she had an idea.  
  
Gothic architecture was full of symbolism. In part, this was superstition and art, but for one schooled, these symbols were signs of faith, and faith and magic came from the same place of the heart and mind. To use christian elements for magic rituals was commonplace, even Wanda did it. It was easy to handle and to acquire. So, she quickly freed Loki from the debris and dragged him to one particular ornament on the floor that could easily serve as a magic circle. And damn, even a slender man like this was heavy.  
  
She placed him in the circle cautiously, taking care not to injure him further. In the meantime, Wanda had made up her mind to put the Jotun under a geis. It was a curse of sorts deep from the depths of celtic mythology. Basically, it defined a taboo for an individual, and if that taboo was broken, grave injury or even death were possible. There was a legend about the hero of Ulster, Cúchulainn, who had two geasa: never to pass a herd and decline an offer for a meal, and never to eat dog meat. When he was offered dog meat for a meal and thus, broke one of his geasa, one of his arms decayed and he died shortly thereafter. And a geis woven in a cathedral over a thousand years old would be a curse that would give even Loki pause.  
  
Unfortunately, she didn't know even a single word of gaelic, which could disrupt the ritual. But attempting it even if she failed would be better than doing nothing and letting Loki recover before any reinforcements could arrive. Also, these kind of rituals usually contained one of the following components: Nature, sex or blood. Since she didn't fancy the former, she chose the latter, scratching a bit of blood from her small wound on the forehead and smearing it into the parted lips of the Jotun. Then, she tasted his blood. Strange, it didn't seem any different from human blood, and Loki's quiet face looked young, almost vulnerable, not like the frightening creature that had gleefully pureed the eyeball of an innocent man.  
  
The smoke got thicker while she started her murmured incantation, and while she did so, Loki started to stir. But even with her incantation being in english, her knowledge about the ritual wasn’t that vast. It felt oddly wrong when she explained the waking Jotun the terms, since the ritual compelled her to do a thorough explanation.  
  
“Please don’t move too much.” She had aimed to sound and look commanding and imposing, but instead her voice was mild and empathetic. How strange, that was not supposed to happen. “You are in the middle of a magic ritual and I assume that you know better than to disturb it with something like, say, attacking me. Also, you were hurt pretty badly. Sorry about that.”  
  
Loki opened his eyes with visible effort, and then groaned. He had to know better than to disrupt the ritual and jump Wanda right now. He was, after all, an experienced sorcerer, right? He wouldn’t just puree her like the poor fellow in Stuttgart.  
  
But indeed, he did nothing. He just took a look at the floor, recognized the soft glow of a magic circle and then nodded slowly, visibly in pain. He even looked resigned after he had managed to shoot her a hateful glance. “What kind of ritual is it you’re botching here?”  
  
“I’m putting you under a geis.” Wanda explained, ignoring his insult. “There will be a taboo. If it is broken, you risk imminent death.” Considering that she didn’t do the ritual the right way, she had to lessen the difficulty, which meant that she had to shoulder terms. Also, the phrasing was very important, but such things were basic education for any sorcerer.  “The geis will also affect me. The spirit of the geis is meaningless, what counts is the letter of the taboo. Listen closely: No harm will come to the homeworld or the people who live there from the hand of the participants, unless in self-defence, accident, unconsciously, unwilling, or to keep greater harm from the people or save more of them than are sacrificed in the long run until such a time both participants have lifted the geis. Do you understand?”  
  
Magic surged through both of their bodies, an invigorating feeling that didn’t prevent Loki from slowly sitting up … and smiling. What on earth could have amused him right after being forbidden to essentially harm any human being? But Loki seemed to add his own magic to the ritual, exploiting a flaw that Wanda’s inexperience had woven. He added himself as a participant and caster of the ritual … that meant, that he could dictate her terms as well, and worse, put a geas on her.  
  
“Sloppy work.” He slurred his words, but he was nonetheless grinning in triumph. “Hear my words: None of the participants will acknowledge the presence or continued existence of the other in regards to non-participants of this ritual and will do their very best to keep the presence and continued existence of said participant hidden until such a time he or she is explicitly allowed to do otherwise.”  
  
That he was schooled in the basic terms of ritual wasn’t surprising, but that he effectively prevented Wanda from telling anybody about him was an annoyance. How was she supposed to warn Captain Rogers about the Jotun who had without a doubt some sinister plan in motion? Once more, magic surged, the circle flickered and faded, leaving the ritual complete. It felt like a thousand invisible needles had taken root in her soul, and in her dazed condition, she found herself sinking to the floor, sitting beside Loki in a similar state while smoke filled the hall. She had to get out of there, and fast. She stumbled to her feet and offered Loki her hand, but he was determined to be petty and decline it by rising on his own. She wanted to say something, one witty one-liner about fire or sorcery, but she never had the chance. The sound of dripping fluid was the only warning they ever got.  
  
Both of them froze immediately as they heard an animalistic roar, then slow and heavy stomps, every single one accompanied by a distinct thud. There was silence hanging heavy in the air while smoke and flames seemed to part and reveal the enormous shade. Wanda could feel her own heart beating madly against her chest, while the sound of dripping fluid became more and more audible as the creature approached. Good grief, what was that stench?  
  
She watched in horror as the shape of this monster appeared in the smoke. It towered at least twice as large and many more times as massive as any human, a mountain of muscles. Aside from the head, there was no skin anywhere, so that muscles and sinews were clearly visible. Parts of his abdomen, his feet and his left arm were still ragged, if not outright missing, while blood, so much more blood than was possible dripped from the creature’s body. His eyes were lit with a strange glow, one that Wanda recognized at once as necromancy. It jerked its head, apparently noticing either her or Loki, who stood just as frozen as she.  
  
It was Wanda, who finally took his hand, her eyes never leaving the giant monster, whispering “I propose a temporary alliance.” and trying to lead him to back off, slowly. He let himself be led, whispering a short agreement. The giant zombie seemed to take his time to stomp closer to both of them.  
  
“Any plan?” Loki’s voice faltered barely audible with just a hint of fear and nervousness.   
  
“Run?”  
  
“In part, that’s a feasible plan. You hit it with one of these spells and I cover our escape?” Smartass.  
  
“I don’t know what will happen.” Wanda still couldn’t look away while the towering figure stomped closer.  
  
This time, Loki really turned his head to her, speaking in whisper, but also in the impatient tone one reserved for lazy and dim-witted students. “Nobody ever learned magic with a little bit of risk. But this lesson is lost on you; you don’t even dare to cast your spells on yourself.”  
  
If there wasn’t a gigantic zombie threatening both of their lives while they were paralyzed with indecision and fear and he wasn’t a douchebag who had invaded her home, she would love to have a professional chat with him.  
  
Then, the white knight in shining armour appeared. He took the form of a determined Steve Rogers, who had sneaked soft-footed to jump the zombie. In a display of valor and foolish despair, he threw himself like a berserk against that nightmarish monster, no matter how much blood was splattering around. The creature roared in rage, but its movements were uncoordinated and clumsy, so it tried to grab the wrestling Captain with its only hand. It failed the first, but not the second time, seizing him by the shoulder.  
The soldier however was not deterred. He struggled himself free, kept moving around the creature, as if he wanted to taunt it.  
  
Wanda could feel that Loki withdrew his hand from her, but didn’t care much. She had more important things on her mind, like helping Captain Rogers. She was too tired and exhausted for magic right now, and now started coughing. But she managed to shout one vital piece of information. “Decapitate it! This isn’t your friend! It isn’t Banner!”  
  
By that time she had sunk to the floor, deprived of the adrenalin that had kept her standing during the confrontation with Loki. She could only watch motionless how Rogers fought with the beast, how he relentlessly assaulted it. When he blocked one of the monster’s blows with his shield, he got hurled into a pillar, which cracked under the pressure, but even that didn’t slow him down. In the end, with a throw of his shield decapitated the undead creature. The head rolled over the floor, leaving a small trail of gore behind. It was thoroughly disgusting.  
  
“Are you alright, ma’am? What was that?”  Steve Rogers had rushed to her side, trying to help her up, his eyes never leaving the fallen zombie-Hulks lifeless shape. But she felt so boneless and couldn’t stop coughing. That was odd. The smoke shouldn’t affect her that much, since she was close to the floor. Smoke didn’t sink down there that soon.  
  
“It wasn’t me.” Wanda answered, tired as she was. Before she lost consciousness, she realized that Loki was gone.

 


	7. Basque System

 

 

At times, even a moderately sized cup seemed far too small. But there was nothing to be done about it right now, was there? Even so, the coffee within was steaming hot, blacker than ink and packed with enough sugar to cause diabetes just by looking at it. Given her current state, it was the most perfect cup of coffee in existence. Even though Wanda heard someone coming in, she was settled to enjoy her cup of coffee just one moment longer, just long enough to add to the perfection by throwing in an aspirin, which disappeared into the black liquid with a fizzing sound. She didn’t like the experiment, but she had to somehow stop the pounding in her head after a healthy dose of Loki, zombie-action and stray smoke in her lungs. She had always assumed that smoke poisoning wasn't that big of a deal, but oh dear, was she wrong. It felt like burning ash had settled in every inch of her lungs and it wasn't going to go away anytime soon  
.  
“You don’t look so hot. Here, have a cookie.” Clint Barton sat down at the empty conference table, making sure that he sat vis-á-vis to Wanda while he offered her said palm-sized candy with a smirk, which she accepted thankfully.

“Hmmm, half-baked. These wonderful things you Americans do … you have truly perfected the art of making sweet things even sweeter. Nice to see you, cookie. Nice to see you too, Clint.” She ignored the comment about her current appearance, which couldn’t be that good after she had to shower off lots of dirt and dust after having wrecked an ancient cathedral – her hair was still wet and she had been provided clean, black clothing that S.H.I.E.L.D. thought neutral and non-conspicuous. Barton however, looked just like when she met him the last time two years ago, same clothes, same composure, same lines on his face, same twinkle in his eye. Somehow he must have learned how to halt his ageing process, or enjoyed his work so much that it kept him young – which would be somewhat unsettling.

Clint’s smirk slowly vanished from his face. “I heard there were some complications.”

“Do you think so? The way you described it, dead men walking are usual business.” She explained cheerfully while breaking her cookie down into little bits, but when she looked up, she saw the doubtful look on Barton’s face. She had known him long enough not to fool around when he called for serious business. So she cleared her throat and tried again, this time in earnest.

“Your friend – if it really was him, I have the theory that this was just a magic clone – was most certainly animated by magic, necromancy to be specific. Rapid regeneration, low brain functions, strange feel to it. I think this head was a trap – imagine what it could have done in a regular morgue. It would only have stopped moving when utterly destroyed or decapitated. I assume that creature might have even given pause to that secret organization of yours if it had been complete.”

“I know. But how have you been? What happened?” He was genuinely concerned, which she noticed gratefully, but it also meant that he required a full explanation now. In fact, she could not blame him. Before she stopped reporting in, he had only heard of her hospitalization, but had been kind enough not to ask too many questions. It was high time that she explained the whole situation. If she couldn’t confide in him, who else?

“You remember that I was aspiring to earn my medical degree, no? Apparently, I couldn’t handle it. I had to drop out. I wouldn’t have made a good doctor anyway, my tutor said that I played it too close to the heart. Too much empathy for patients. Too compassionate.” Wanda sighed heavily. “ Anyway, that’s how I went from student to mental patient.”

“Sounds like you had a rough time. How did you end up here, then?”

“A really, really bizarre chain of events. First, I was sent to London by Agatha Harkness with a few messages. But the mages who were supposed to take me in were murdered. Then your colleagues swooped down upon me, handed me over to Captain America, who took me to Cologne. He went on a mission, I hid in the cathedral like the well-behaved civilian I am …” Clint snorted at the comment. “ ... and then the magic head zombie-hulked out. Violence ensued, violence solved the problem.” She singsonged the rest of the story. “Then I passed out, breathed a lot of oxygen, got stuffed in one of those little planes …”

“Quinjets.” Barton corrected.

“ … Quinjets. I think I might have been sleeping, because the flight felt like minutes, then I got to this tower - which I am told is your Avengers HQ - showered, dressed and voilá, got a cup of coffee. And ‘tis a marvellous cup of coffee, let me tell you.”

Clint leaned forward and peered into the cup. “Coffee. Black. Classy.”

She pulled the cup closer to herself before he could grab it and take a sip. “Yes, it is. Oh, and speaking of classy: I so do like what they did with that interrogation cell I last had the pleasure of visiting. So much nicer than those tiled rooms they used to interrogate me in.” She kept her joking tone with just the slightest hint of accusation. “The new design is quite elegant.”

Barton couldn’t help but grin and play along. “Well, excuse me, princess. There’s still this tiny little terrorist thing way back that has never been formally resolved.”

“Details.” She huffed.

“Just sayin'.” The smile faded from his face when he leaned back and crossed his arms before his chest. “Hell of a day, huh?”

“You can say that again. It’s strange, though. I feel fine. Walking corpses, fire and interrogation chambers aside, I’m well. In fact, I haven’t felt that good in a long time. Most peculiar.”

“It’s not.” Clint stated as a matter-of-fact. “’You should have been working out there, where you can change something, where it really matters. People like us can’t be sitting in some nuthouse, waiting to be cured. We help ourselves by doing what we do best.”

“People like us?” Now Wanda was a little offended. People? What was that supposed to mean? Professional assassins like him? Freaks like her? His words about the mental hospital however stung, even if she wouldn’t admit it. “I really like you, Clint, but you are sadly mistaken if you think that we are anything alike.” She sounded more dismissive than she had originally intended, yet Barton wasn’t deterred.

“Listen closely, kid: it doesn’t matter what a person pretends to be, it only matters what a person does when under pressure. It’s not everyday life that brings out the best or worst in us, it’s the extremes. You and I live for that, and you know it. You said so yourself, remember?”

He was right. After all what happened today, she couldn’t turn her back, and in that he was right. He must have sensed that she had originally considered to bail out as soon as possible. Now, the thought alone made her cheeks glow in embarrassment. Living the extremes and always remembering that one could die every day was living at its fullest. Once, she had embraced that concept as Barton embraced it now.

“Memento mori, hm?”

“I prefer Memento vitae - remember that you have to live.”

“You shame me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Barton sounded less stern now as he went on. “Look, this whole mess hit us all very sudden. Before Thor and Loki, we dismissed the mere existence of magic as myth or some fancy mutant power. It’s not, it’s real.”

“I noticed.” Wanda nodded said dryly.

“No kidding.” Clint answered equally dry. “I guess that’s why Cap hired you.”

So that’s what it was called nowadays? But when Clint talked about it like this, she had to consider herself an employee now. Was it too soon to ask for the necessary paperwork? Visa? And what about taxes? She opted to address the most important issue. “Just to be clear.” She said in a warning tone. “I will not work for your employer, the shadowy organization, nor will I do harm or help you develop weapons.”

“Duly noted.”

That was surprisingly easy. Wanda was taken aback about how readily her terms were accepted. “That being said, what do you need me to do?”

“We need information on a staff, on the procedure done to ‘Banner’s’ remains and about mind control.” Barton answered earnestly.

“That doesn’t sound too bad. What kind of staff?” Wanda asked, taking a sip of her coffee, only to almost choke on it. She made a mental note to never combine coffee with aspirin again. It tasted like it was heaped with loads of artificial sweetener, minus the sweet, and seasoned with a shot of dish soap.

“That kind that enslaves other people. It belonged to Loki.” From the look on his face it was to be assumed that he had some bad experiences related to that staff. He would talk about it sooner or later, but it was unsettling that Barton, one of the strongest men she knew, showed signs of anger, frustration and even fear. So, instead of some wisecracking comment, Wanda just nodded silently.

“How long is this employment going to be for?” She asked, sipping her coffee and getting used to the taste.

“As long as this crisis lasts.”

“Crisis …” Wanda scoffed half-heartedly, feeling that she had to complain about something if she was about to be pressed into some adventure she didn’t ask for and service in a matter she didn’t consider herself a specialist in. “There is always some crisis. If you find out what happened to your friend, there's still the question of the mage who performed this ritual. One investigation will quickly lead to another. It’s a never-ending story of causality.”

“Precisely.” Clint looked almost happy about it. Of course he was happy. He had nagged her about joining his fellow agents for ten years, and now, in a sense, he got his wish: She was under his wing, more or less, working to help fight the good fight, as he called it. Her gaze drifted off from Clint to the windows. Even here, black clouds darkened the dusky sky, indicating heavy rain. What a dismal sight.

“... I like it, my girlfriend likes it, my AI likes it. Everyone likes it but you, Cap. Bottom line: you’re being a spoilsport.” One of the people entering the room said. The first person to enter was Steve Rogers, whom she had already had the pleasure of meeting. The second person was a man of average height and built, with short, dark hair and a well-groomed beard. Wanda had seen enough TV to know who this was. The media liked to depict him taller and she had always assumed that lighting and make-up were doing him favors, but he really looked young for someone well in his forties, although ageing he was. He appeared with his teeth clenched, his skin tightening around his jaw and followed by an attractive, strawberry-blonde woman about in her late thirties. Like Wanda, she was tall and statuesque, with long legs and delicate fingers. She was the one who took a seat next to Wanda, offering a smile and whispering “Hi. Pepper.”, which the sorceress answered with an equally quick and whispered “Wanda. My pleasure.” There was something genuinely friendly and patient about this Pepper that made her instantly likeable. Steve Rogers took a seat next to Clint, while Tony Stark placed himself at the head of the table without sitting down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby declare this war council open, because I don't care what you say; when anybody hurts one of us, it means war.” Stark spoke fast, thought fast and was evidently very upset about the events. “Somebody got a question? I do. What happened to Banner? It's been four days and we aren't any closer to the answer.” Frustration bled through every single of his words.

It was Pepper who interjected in a patient and understanding manner. “We've checked every camera in the city that we could get our hands on. But Banner's trail just gets cold after Greenwich.”

“Which leaves us with nothing.” Tony Stark growled. “Second question, who's that?” He pointed at Wanda, who had to gather all her discipline not to wince.

“She's a specialist.” The Captain said in unison with Clint's “She's with me.”, both trying not to look slightly nervous. It was clear that Tony Stark, who was a known individual with genius intellect, a scientist and inventor, would never accept the word “witch”. So, before any of the two could come up with a lie, Wanda decided to mask the truth and tell it to Stark how it was and how he could accept it.

“How do you do, I'm Wanda Maximoff.” She said in the most polite, amiable tone possible. “I specialize in bioelectric emissions and energy signatures. I sincerely believe that your friend is still alive and I will continue to operate under this assumption.” She paused, emphasizing the last sentence. “I'm here to help, if you will have me.”

The funny thing was, it was all true. As a witch, she was an expert compared to scientists who couldn't fathom what they were dealing with. As a medicine drop-out, she also knew about biochemistry and had even put the focus of her studies on it in the biochemical area. There was of course the drop-out problem, which Stark would learn sooner or later. In that case she could still stand by her initial statement, and most importantly: She really wanted to help. This was not what Agatha had asked of her, but it was just as well and brought her together with the people she had to deliver her messages to.

“And she can help?” It wasn’t a question for her, his eyes wandered to the Captain and Clint, who both nodded in unison. This seemed to satisfy him. “On my payroll then.”

Steve Rogers rose from his chair, a mild smile on his face. “I’ll keep her in this building or close to it for the time being, since she’s a fugitive from S.H.I.E.L.D. …”

“A fugitive?” Tony Stark’s dark mood seemed to brighten, even if he moved now from cynical into smartass territory when he turned to Wanda once more. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I have a soft spot for fugitives from Fury.” He sniffed, looking out of the window. “Warms my heart to harbour them. But if these two are okay with you, I guess you can have one of the twenty-one guest beds. I wanted to have forty-two, but I’ll settle for half the truth if it gets me what I want.” Sly. He had instantly figured out she wasn’t telling him the whole thing, hinting that he didn’t really accept being in the dark, although he was focused on more important things for the time being.

“Okay. What happened to Banner in Cologne?” Stark looked straight at Rogers, who leaned on the backrest of his chair with his elbows and nodded in Wanda’s direction.

She cleared her throat. “It seems that some kind of accelerated regeneration process was triggered. It looked like someone summoned a half-decaying corpse from the grave. It is my belief that the head itself was artificially created.” Again, this was true as well; although it was phrased as a scientific process, the magic behind it worked the same way. But it also meant that Banner was alive somewhere, as such doppelgangers normally needed a link to the life force of the original.

“Makes sense. I’ve seen something like this before.” Stark interjected. “I mean, the whole point of Extremis was stimulating and regenerating cells and Dr. Erskine’s serum basically had a mightily drunk party with the whole concept. An altered version like Banner tried to reproduce could do the speed-regeneration, even with a dead body or something cloned.” He stroked his chin and continued to walk around the table, passing Wanda, who for the briefest moment could smell the faint scent of disinfectant and bandages under his aftershave. Normally, she wouldn't have noticed it, but right now, she was alert and wary concerning Tony Stark. Also, the fact that she was freshly showered and was very familiar with these kind of products helped the case greatly. Apparently, he was recovering from an injury.

Barton was quick to provide an explanation. “Extremis was a virus … serum, upgrade, I don’t know the details. Basically, they tried to create another super soldier serum and kinda succeeded. Thing is, soldiers were really Super Soldiers, breathed fire, grew back limbs and were nearly invulnerable, but they tended to explode randomly. Ugly business.”

Wanda’s eyes widened. “Exploded …? Heavens and destiny, those guys were totally crackers. Why would anybody use such a dangerous thing?” She heard Pepper’s mumbling voice beside her, saying something that sounded suspiciously like “It was ugly, true.”

Clint grimaced. “Because it’s powerful. It gets better: Some organization named Centipede has recovered the formula and is experimenting with it again. I got the memo a few months ago.

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes looking snappish again.”And you didn’t tell me.”

“Wasn’t supposed to. I just defied orders.”

There was a moment of complete silence when both men just looked each other in the eyes, then both of them tried not to smile and content themselves with a twitching in the corner of the mouth. They might have high-fived if it weren’t for the company in general and especially Rogers’ scrutinizing glance.

“It’s worse. There’s more to it.” The Captain said finally in a wary voice. “In Cologne, I was supposed to help with the extraction of a scientist. He never showed up. It turned out that the whole mission was a fake. The scientist never existed.”

Clint frowned. “Who gave you the mission.”

“Blake.”

“Odd. He’s one stuck-up S.O.B., but he’s honest.” He paused a moment, chewing it through. “There’s another fishy thing. Natasha says that she’s being shadowed and protected, and she doesn’t know by whom. We know enough of the game that you have to know all the players to win. I don’t like it.” He leaned back in his seat. “I’ll team up with her. Give me the intel and I’ll see what we can dig up together. If we act, Natasha’s pursuer has to come out sooner or later.”

Although Wanda didn’t want to deal with S.H.I.E.L.D. in her lifetime again, she needed to share another thought. “The cloned head was dormant until we reached Cologne where you had your assignment, correct?” She asked Rogers, who nodded curtly. “What if it was triggered by the same person who knew that you would be in the vicinity of the zombie? Perhaps it was an attack on you.”

“It might have been a trap.” The Captain mused. “But the only people who knew were Blake, the bus personnel and Hand. Blake gave me the assignment, bus personnel gave you into my custody and Victoria Hand and her people were at the murder scene.”

Wanda groaned. “Oh dear. Victoria Hand?” That was bad. Back when she had been a good little terrorist for her father, Hand was one of the agents that had tracked her down and were severely injured in the process. After her recovery, she had overseen Wanda’s ‘parole’, making her life a living hell. Victoria Hand was a no-nonsense rules-lawyer and did not abide any transgression. Good grief, even jaywalking was a descent into crime in her eyes. “She and I go way back. She might hold a grudge.” Wanda finally disclosed with gritted teeth.

Much to her surprise, nobody pressed the issue. She could only see pensive faces while Rogers nodded. “Okay. There’s another thing that bothers me. Who put the head on the Helicarrier?”

Mr. Stark scoffed again. “You mean, aside from the fact that their cloaking device is in a bad need of a hot, steamy date with a trash can? Beats me. Anyone with sufficient equipment could have done it.”

“Yes, but you have the monopoly on the technology necessary to bypass the cloaking device, but it had to be used by someone skilled in espionage and infiltration, given the security measures. Either it was someone from inside S.H.I.E.L.D., or it was someone with greater resources, possibly extraterrestial.” Rogers said, but he was interrupted.

“Loki.” Clint uttered when he hadn’t even finished the sentence.

“Loki.” Stark agreed in a deadpan tone.

“Loki.” Even Captain Rogers concurred without a second thought.

“That’s what happens when you lock mass murderers up. They just keep breaking out and rampage some more. But shouldn’t Thor be on our doorstep if Trollface broke out of prison?” Stark asked in a flippant voice.

It was Pepper who finally raised her voice in a quiet tone. “Too bad Loki’s dead.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Mr. Stark, in a manner that indicated a certain level of intimacy enquired. “How do you know that?”

“Jane Foster called me this morning. She and Thor are on Tahiti; they heard it’s a magical place. She just wanted to check in and entrusted me that he’s deep in mourning about his mother and his brother.”

“Damn.” Tony Stark said after another brief silence, rubbing his neck. “That poor guy can’t take a break. I’m glad that our least favourite horned God finally bit the dust, but Thor must be crushed. No pun intended. Really.”

Wanda knew better. She knew that Loki was alive, if not all that well after the two of them had faced off in a magic duel. She was still miffed that he had outwitted her in her own magic ritual, and rather easily as it would seem. It had been a mistake to attack him in the first place. Instead, she should have talked to him, stalling for the real hero to arrive, and then taken him down together. But instead, her temper had got the better of her … which was odd, because Wanda never got angry. She got melancholic, but angry? That was a state almost unknown to her. What had infuriated her enough to abandon basic survival instinct faced with a clearly superior opponent? The answer was easy: The gall. The gall to attack her people, hurt them tremendously and then come back apparently sightseeing without any remorse, while she had done little else than feeling remorse and try to better herself after her own mistakes.

 

In retrospect, she could say that the duel ended with a draw, no clear winner while both of them had to deal with their losses. In this case, Wanda couldn’t tell the others that Loki might very well be behind Bruce’s disappearance and subsequent zombification. Since Loki was a sorcerer, it wasn’t past him, and he certainly had the experience and knowledge to deal with necromancy, one of the most vile arts around. But she bit her tongue, feeling the slightest hint of magic like tiny little teeth tugging at her skull. The geis compelled her to keep his continued existence hidden - he had to have known that this would be to her disadvantage. But the letter of the spell was important. She could give hints, but had to do everything to keep his existence secret.

“Is it proven that he’s dead?” She asked, gingerly probing the limits of the spell. But mere implications didn’t belong to the letter of the spell, but to the spirit, and thus, she went through this careful comment unharmed.

It was friendly Pepper, of all people, who tore the implication to shreds. “Jane was with them when Loki died, and she isn’t a fool. She wouldn’t be deceived.” Darn it. This Jane-woman was evidently way too perceptive for her own good.

Since nobody openly questioned Loki’s death, Pepper’s social graces and the aforementioned Jane’s skills be damned, Wanda sighed and changed the subject, turning to Barton. “That makes Agatha’s message to you, Thor and the Doctor rather difficult.”

Mr. Stark apparently couldn’t stop himself from joking, putting on a fake english accent. “Excuse me, the Doctor? If anybody builds a TARDIS, it shall be me!”

“Dr. Stephen Strange.”, Wanda explained after a brief snicker. “He’s a neurosurgeon and an acquaintance of mine. He actually lives a few blocks from here.” At least, he had been a neurosurgeon before he became the most powerful wizard alive. The Merlin was a concept the wizard community still practiced, but it was too well-known and too local. The Merlin was the most powerful mage or sorceress of Britain, but the most powerful wizard worldwide was the Sorcerer Supreme, which happened to be Dr. Stephen Strange. He nowadays hired himself out as an occult investigator; which meant that out of ten poltergeist-cases, one usually was actually legitimate and piqued his interest.

“You won’t get your message to him anytime soon.” Barton said, frowning. “He went missing about two weeks ago. S.H.I.E.L.D. has tried to locate him, but found nothing. I was actually hoping you would know something. He has on occasion worked with us.”

“That’s not surprising.” Wanda answered, unmoved. “He sometimes goes off the grid to rest and meditate … usually a faraway, small buddhist monastery.” Which was a straight lie. He went to one of the hidden wizard villages, but Wanda wasn’t ready to share that information when secrecy about the magical world and creatures was still paramount. She shrugged. “He will appear again eventually.”

Clint Barton chuckled. “There are still people who do that meditation-thing? Fair enough. What was your message from the old girl?” He always called her that when she wasn’t in the room. Little did he know that she was most likely dead. It still felt unreal, unspoken as it was, and Wanda refused to believe it real. She glanced around the table: Both the Captain and Mr. Stark were listening with interest, as well as Pepper, who had her hands folded on the table in a pensive gesture. Was it right to relay her message with strangers listening? On the other hand, Tony Stark was a certified hero, Captain Rogers was undoubtedly a knight in shining armour who had saved her and Pepper seemed like a friendly, honest person. What harm could it do?

“She said that you have to retrace the steps of the Jotun and that we have to find the Spymaster before he strikes.” Saying it out loud, she realized how vague the message really was. Judging from his expression, Barton took it seriously nonetheless. Sometimes, she wondered what kind of history he had with Agatha Harkness, but he wouldn’t tell her. Secrets, secrets, so many secrets.

“Jotun?”

“Jotun. Jötunn. YoeTUHNN. Old norse word taken from ancient alien invaders who called themselves thus. Translates roughly into Frost Giants. My guess is that she meant Loki.”

For a moment, Barton was taken aback, so Tony Stark, grinning, asked the question of questions. “Loki was a Frost GIANT?”

Having lived in a town with at least one notable Frost Giant woman, Wanda knew a thing or two about them. “They can absorb ice like a sponge absorbs water, which increases their size. Usually, they have blue skin and shave their heads, but can grow hair. If cosmetically supported, they can pass as humans. My guess is that Loki simply made the effort.” On the second thought, it was odd that he would. Why would he wear the face of his enemy, when he could easily inspire more fear when appearing like the alien he was?

“It makes sense that this Agatha wants that investigated if she cares as much for you two as I think she does.” The Captain finally said, a pensive expression on his face. “I’ve wondered since New York where these Chitauri came from, Thor just said that they came ‘from a place beyond’. Also, the cold calculus of war tells me that the invasion wasn’t ever going to succeed. They poured forces into that wormhole, which at one point had to collapse …” Stark nodded affirmatively. “... they managed to hurt us, but in the end, they ‘only’ wrecked a few blocks in one of the most densely populated places in the world. Seriously, either they didn’t know that there were seven billion people on this planet or this wasn’t an invasion at all.” He paused. “My experience says that something is wrong.”

“And Agatha wants ME to investigate?” Barton asked, exasperated.

“Perhaps you are already investigating. She had a lot of sources, perhaps she knew that you could uncover something … you, Thor and the Doctor.” Wanda answered, keeping her voice carefully neutral, lest that melancholic feeling that had overcome her would seep into her words. Agatha was most likely dead and there was no way for her to be certain.

“Blake and Hand.” Clint Barton crossed his arms over his chest. “To work then. Ladies, could you give us some space? This is really secret stuff ... ”

“I’ll know within a day anyway.” Pepper winked but then tugged at Wanda’s sleeve to lead her out of the room. “See you, guys.”

When the door fell closed behind the two, they walked the hallway together until Pepper addressed Wanda, again patient and sympathetic. “I heard that you arrived here just with the clothes on your back …”

Wanda let out a dry laugh. “Even those aren’t mine.”, only to have Pepper pat her shoulder.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get it sorted out. You’ll be safe here. Anyways, you and I have roughly the same size; so even if you can’t leave the tower we’ve got you covered.”

These were simple words, but they warmed the heart. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“Pepper.”

“Pepper. It’s strange … there’s danger afoot and secrets everywhere, but the things that occupy my mind are shopping and that I haven’t done my taxes.”

“That’s not strange at all. When Tony was under attack in New York, all I could think of was his safety, all those poor people in danger, and that if he died, I would have to do his tax report. Taxes, end of the world, all the same. And that’s a Pepperism.”


	8. Fool's mate

 

Loki was near.

He was so close, Sif could practically smell his fear. Gripping her spear tighter, she glanced at her companions, who despite the dazzling scenery were also alert to the point of tense. It had been a lot of work, but they had finally found Loki's trail. They had followed it onto this point in Nornheim, an Asgardian province who prided itself in its relative independence. The trickster had apparently gone complacent, since he had lingered in the capital's library without hiding his appearance. One of Fandral's contacts had discreetly informed him, and ever since Sif and the Warrior's Three had been in hot pursuit. They chased him relentlessly through the streets of the capital for hours, playing a lethal game of cat and mouse. Somewhere along the way, Volstagg couldn't keep up and got left behind, but Sif didn't care; he was certainly well and she had to keep up the chase, and now this decision bore fruit. A little while ago, she had been so close to the fleeing Loki that she had even grazed him with her spear, drawing blood, but in a frustrating turn of events, he had escaped from her grasp. This had been only a few minutes ago, as Sif saw with no small amount of satisfaction that the blood on her spearhead still glistened in the midday sun.

The chase had led them here, to a small clearing in the forest near the capital, or rather what the people of Nornheim called a forest. Most of the trees were artificially grown out of a white crystalline matter these lands were so famous for, shining brightly in the light of the sun even to the smallest branches and leaves. Sif had thought that Loki would choose a dark place to hide, but she never would have imagined that instead of this, he would conceal his presence in one of the brightest places in this province, hiding in the brilliance of thousands of reflecting lights.

Against the scintillating odds, she noticed the shade of dark green fabric behind one of the crystalline trees not far from her position. There … there he was, hiding behind the heavily overgrown trunk of a tree and not moving out of fear that he would be detected. Sif knew that Loki had always had trouble upholding or casting his spells when he was injured, so it was entirely possible that he still thought himself magically concealed from their views. Not this time. Now she had just to spring the trap and make sure that this slippery bastard didn't escape again.  
She didn't even need to nod her head in the general direction of her discovery – a discreet glance was all Fandral and Hogun needed to understand what she intended to do. Hogun even feigned discovery and investigation in another direction, which allowed Fandral and herself to circle Loki's presumed location. Again she made eye-contact with her companion, both of them nodding in silent agreement on how to finish their plan to ambuscade the so-called master of illusion. But when they both spun around behind their covers, weapons pointed at the place where their target was supposed to be, he was gone.

In his place, only a cloak hung from the tree, carefully attached to the crystalline vegetation. Despite herself, Sif practically snarled in frustration while Fandral contented himself with merely a disappointed look on his face. He also relaxed visibly, sheathing his sword in one quick, fluid motion. That small gesture was enough to boil up enough anger in Sif to even snap at him.

“Are you insane? He's still around!”

But Fandral, dashing and gallant Fandral who jumped to any and every challenge as long as it tested his blade suddenly looked serious, which was contradictory in itself. After a blink, this was gone and he smiled it away with all the charm he possessed.

“No, Sif. He isn't. That cloak there? It's slightly sun-bleached and looks a little damp. That thing has been hanging here for at least a few days. But knowing our mutual “friend”, it could also be weeks or even months, don't you think? He's gone for sure by now.” He placed his hands on his hips, almost looking a little wistful in his reminisces. “I've used this little trick quite often in my day. It never fails to put off any kind of nasty pursuer. They look for you in a completely different direction, and while they are occupied, you run as though Gjalp herself was on your heels.” He wrinkled his nose. “Norns, that bloody Gjalp-woman was hideous.”

Sif rolled her eyes, feeling like hitting something, but the only things available were Fandral, the arriving Hogun and the trees, which would probably give a symphony of clangor if she attempted such a thing. She settled instead for ripping Loki's decoy cloak from its position and threw it on the ground with gusto. It still didn't make her feel any better.

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed which was only broken by Fandral's weak attempt to appear chipper in the face of the humiliation of failure.

“Well, that's that. No point standing around and wringing our hands, is there?” While Sif could only glare at him, she noticed that her two companions exchanged a barely perceivable glance, understanding flickering in Fandral's eyes before he turned to her once more. “I think we forgot Volstagg somewhere in the town. I'm going to search for him. I'll meet you two at the town gates.” He bowed courteously to her before departing swiftly. Maybe he just wanted to defuse the situation, but Sif felt somewhat mocked.

She watched as Fandral walked away, apparently light-hearted and unconcerned as always. When she turned around, she noticed that Hogun was watching her intently, his arms folded before his chest, his gaze stern. At first, she tried to ignore him - she knew that look, knew that that this was his way of scolding people, let them burn under his the pressure of the steely rigor he radiated until they realized their mistakes and felt adequately sorry for it. There was just one problem with the situation: She was right.

“What do you want from me?” Even her low, almost dangerous tone wasn’t enough to deter his gaze and he didn’t answer. Why? What did she do wrong? It seemed like an eternity before Hogun finally decided to speak, slowly, but sharp in tone nonetheless.

“You want to kill him.” He stated flatly.

“So?”

“Thor would not approve.”

“Of course not!” Anger was brewing up inside her, but it felt more like righteous fury that had been held back for far too long. “After all he's done, he should have been executed four times over. Why didn't the Allfather give that command when he had him? He didn't even acknowledge him as his son anymore; why not be done with it?”

For the first time in many years, she now detected an unfamiliar look on her second's face. Normally, Hogun the Grim lived up to his name, his facial expression never showing anything less than utmost sincerity. But now, she could have sworn that his features softened ever so slightly for just the briefest of moments. His body was still taut and his voice steadfast, betrayed only by a tiny indication of mildness that was so unlike him. “Sif, he couldn’t. He still can't. Odin has sacrificed for all of us many times before, but this time, it was different. He could never do that. He doesn't know how.”

“So he just contented himself with doing nothing? I won’t have it!” Her voice could have cut to stone, she was practically hissing. She realized however that it was Hogun, the silent and strong Vanir she was snapping at. He was not her enemy, and she should know better. Closing her eyes, she summoned all her strength to calm herself. She had to explain herself, otherwise, her companion just might leave her or worse, tell Odin or Thor about her plan. “It’s important for both of them. Let them mourn his noble death, instead of having him stab them in the back again and again. You know as well as I that as long as Loki lives, Thor will never know peace. I’m doing this for him.”

The stoic warrior was still looking at her, as if he expected her to continue further. Suddenly, Sif felt like a small child being scolded for being caught in flagranti while doing some mischief. She struggled for words, not knowing how she could put her feelings into words without letting it sound so … wrong. So petty.

“You've seen Loki before his trial; we’ve all seen him. He’s changed forever. He will never be the same again; we all knew it, but Thor refused to see it. If he had his way, if he knew that he was still alive, Loki would be given chance after chance, and everything would turn just more miserable.” She was surprised that her voice sounded so anguished, that she felt so much anguish. Her resolve was strong, why couldn’t her voice and posture simply follow?

“You are going to lose him if you go through with this.” Hogun was by his very nature firm and intense, even more so now, as his words carried the weight of an ugly truth she had denied as of yet. Thor would never forgive her, even if she succeeded, but strangely enough, she didn't feel deterred in the slightest.

“I know that. He will never make this decision and I’m his friend. So it's my burden to make it for him.” Unwillingly, she had cast her eyes down and looked at the ground, right on Loki’s decoy cloak. “That’s the sacrifice I have to make for his sake.” It was a sad duty she had loaded on her shoulders, but it was the one and most important thing she had ever done for her friend, the one that mattered most to her.

“It is sacrifice.” Hogun said somberly. “But it is also betrayal.”

Sif's gaze rested on him, a cold fire in her eyes and heart. Silent rage felt like an icy wind and her voice was dangerously low. “How dare you. How dare you to call my most loyal act betrayal.”

Hogun stood silently, his eyes almost imperceptibly widened at her intensity. But then, something changed in his features what looked like understanding, and he inclined his head respectfully to the battlemaiden. He said nothing, because everything he could have said would be a waste of breath – he was now of one mind with her on this. So there was little left to do for him than making an inviting gesture in direction of those strange woods, and they walked silently together in search of their companions.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he thought that he had wandered off far enough so that Sif and Hogun wouldn’t catch up to him anytime soon, Fandal stopped in his walk. He looked around, took in the sight of crystalline trees glittering in the sun like a sea of gemstones. With a quick and fluid movement, he drew his sword and stuck the blade into the ground, only to sit down and lean his back against one of those wondrous trees.

Usually, he was reasonably inclined to play games, but he could afford only so much time before his companions would start looking for him. Indulging his impatience, he sing-songed to the landscape “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

It took only a second before Loki emerged between the trees. The others didn’t know it, but Loki hadn’t necessarily deployed magic to elude them. He had always had the uncanny ability to conceal himself in the wilderness, however that may look. Loki stood leaning at a tree, his arms crossed before his chess and a rare twinkle in his eye that Fandral hadn’t seen in ages. The unspoken agreement of non-aggression was even respected by someone like that trickster, who sounded awfully smug when he raised his voice. “You are losing your touch, great hunter. I’ve seen you hunt down much more skilled and prepared game, and yet, I won this round. How could you allow yourself to let go so much?” He asked, obviously faking hurt and disbelief.

Fandral smiled, but it was humourless and only managed to be a flicker of a twitch in the corner of his mouth. “Sif is one of the greatest warriors I’ve ever seen, but she is not as naturally gifted as huntress.” In many ways, this was true, and Loki nodded slowly. He had always had a soft spot for Sif, even if he wouldn’t admit it, and normally, he would change the subject quickly, but apparently, the trickster was in a wistful mood.

“Do you remember how she took on that troll when she was little more than just a child?” He asked, his face quiet and his voice wistful.

Fandral nodded. “It was one of the hottest summers that realm had ever seen. She charged to impress us and the troll, her battle cry filling in the air, her golden hair gleaming in the sun. The troll was so stunned, he never knew what hit him.” He reminisced, equally wistful, ending with a small chuckle that Loki echoed.

“We could all just watch while she just obliterated that poor creature. I laughed and laughed … I hadn’t laughed that hard since that Duke challenged you to a duel.”

Fandral remembered fondly. He straightened his shoulders, mimicking his gestures and facial expression from that particular incident and taunted the air, as if the Duke from such a long time ago was still alive and challenging him. “My lord, you and your belly honour me, but I just can’t duel both of you …” Both men indulged themselves for a moment, smiling to themselves while they remembered a time when they had still been close.

“Oh, I visited Midgard afterwards to see what had become of our little adventures.” There was a hint of the childishly excitable young man Fandral once knew in Loki’s face when he for the first time reported his findings, genuinely pleased that he could finally tell somebody. “Those silly humans got it all wrong. Nowadays, we are …” He built up the suspense, only to finish in a deadpan tone. “Merry men.”

Fandral snickered. “You are joking. I remember the times not being that merry.” Of course Loki wasn’t joking. He would always opt for the truth if it had more effect than a lie, that volatile boy that he was. Fandral’s smile died when he addressed a more important, more serious issue, one that he wanted to tell Loki for the longest of times. “I’ve read your book.”

Loki arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Which one? I’ve written a few in my time. I aspired to be a bard, if you recall; writing is paramount.”

“The comedy. You were very busy.”

Now, Loki’s boyish smile died as well, and there was a hint of hope in his face as he almost gingerly asked. “You really read it?”

“Oh yes.” Fandral nodded. He had enjoyed the asgardian translation of said script, one that lay forgotten and rarely read in the libraries of the capital. Even if someone stumbled upon it, the reader rarely really appreciated what he just had read and dismissed it as a work with little action and too much artistic freedom. But Fandral, having extensive knowledge about midgardian culture, had seen the work for what it was. “It was the work of a rebel.” He said, almost reverently. When great art was praised, one had to be genuine. “It was inspired, it was bitter. It was a thing of beauty, spiteful, masterful. I remember one particular part that stayed with me for quite some time …” While Loki now arched both eyebrows, Fandral searched his memory for the part that he liked so much and that he thought was a particular inspired piece of work in Loki’s “comedy.”

“Eru þínar heilbrigður þú wahrtet skilning  
Tekur kenninguna vel með blæju  
Vísur slæður sig krónum undarlegt!”

Fandral quoted in a majestic voice reserved for long speeches in a play. Using the ancient asgardian language right was every aspiring bard’s solemn duty, and Fandral was doing his damndest not to squander the verses when he used another language then they were intend for. There was a reason why Loki had opted for an midgardian language for his verses - either he thought he would get more understanding with it as a midgardian book, or he thought the ancient asgardian language not really suitable. When Fandral next looked at Loki, he saw the trickster in a rare condition: Speechless and motionless, as if he just had been struck by lightning. Fandral couldn’t help but smile. “O ye who have undistempered intellects, observe the doctrine that conceals itself beneath the veil of the mysterious verses.” He translated into the modern language. “It has stayed with me for such a long time, it’s almost a companion.”

Loki blinked, and Fandral could have sworn that the eyes of the trickster looked a little more glassy than before. “Loki, that came from the depths of your very soul.” He said gently, while slightly beating on his chest with his fingertips. “That came from the heart. That the truth hurts too much and one must protect oneself with a veil of lies, done by verses and words who carry so much more sharpness than weapons.”

In this second, Loki’s moved expression vanished in favour of irritation. He practically sneered at Fandral. “You know nothing, Fandral. It was a piece of art, but that was never your strongest suit. You only know jokes, basic pleasures and what ale is best to order. What do you know about art? Nothing.” He practically spat the last word again. “Nothing!”

That wasn’t really surprising. When confronted with his own emotions, Loki easily got angry, because dealing with helplessness or not knowing what to do always made him snap at others. Fandral just took it calmly, knowing that he wasn’t the target of this anger and mercilessly continued saying what he wanted to say to Loki for centuries. “I know that your work is masterful without compare. But it also shows that there are two things you know nothing about to this day, Loki: Love and Death. Thor loves you and would die for you, and that’s just one example of your lack of understanding.”

“Nonsense!” Loki snarled.

Taken aback by this intensity, Fandral was actually taken aback. Usually, Loki calmed himself very quickly unless a more serious issue still wasn’t unaddressed. “What happened, Loki? There was a time when we could say such things to each other.” Why was he still angry at him? Thor, Sif, Volstagg, they were all understandable, all of them had threatened or were threatening him with death.

“You betrayed me!” Loki’s voice was dangerously low, almost a whisper. “Appearances and vanity, that was important to you, not art, not adventure, not the quest. You were rather prancing in Thor’s shadow like the lowest of sycophants, that’s what happened.”

Anger welled up in Fandral and he wanted to say something biting, something witty but also something hurtful, but bit his tongue. In the darkest of hours and in the moments of clarity, there was truth in Loki’s words, that Fandral had, in a way, sacrificed their friendship in favour of the friendship with Thor. It had been an unconscious decision out of vanity, to rather be with the glorious Thor than his odd and bookish little brother. But he would rather die than to say that out loud.

Both men took a deep breath, releasing their anger and letting go, leaving a certain sense of tire and exhaustion behind.

“Do you remember our vow of silence?” Loki asked suddenly, equally fatigued by his own anger.

Of course Fandral remembered. They had both had tragedies in their lives, and both times, the other had witnessed it, the moment of despair, of sorrow and regret. These moments were something intimate and private, and although both Loki and Fandral weren’t ones that took many oaths, these promises to keep the other’s grief silent and safe was taken seriously by both. In both cases, the source of their sorrow had been a woman, be it lover or student, it mattered not.

Where there was a seething quality underneath to his anger, there was a fierce intensity in Loki’s sadness, which emerged suddenly and without warning. He let his wistful gaze wander over the scillanting landscape, as if he had little to do with his own words, that of course addressed the source of Fandral’s vow of silence. “She was fierce, she was proud, she was brilliant, and yet she died. She died a brave Queen, but still … she wasn't even a woman when she was killed by words and vows alone. I know everything there is to know about love and death. I know everything about the depravity, the hubris and hypocrisy of humanity.”

Fandral remembered the dark day he made his vow, when the girl Loki had tutored had died. It had been a brief visit to Midgard, and it had been their last. How could he ever forget what dark times they had left behind? “However this turns out, I will never break this vow, Loki. I’ve seldom taken a vow so seriously. Of that, you can be certain.”

“I know. Thank you.” Loki’s answer sounded genuine. He wouldn’t break his vow either, of that, Fandral was always certain. That much trust was left in him for the one who couldn’t be trusted. Odd, that they shared a secret so similar and took it in a similar fashion. Perhaps, they weren’t that different after all.

With a heavy sigh, Fandral rose from his sitting position while Loki took a step back, indicating his leave. The next sentence was a hard one, but one that had to be spoken. “We will meet again, and the next time will be deadly.” Deadly for whom, Fandral couldn’t say. He honestly couldn’t.

Loki nodded, serious, grave and apparently sorry. “I know. Farewell, Robin.”

Fandral smiled, hearing the old moniker again, but it was a sad smile, filled with distant memories of joy and sorrow alike. He felt the need to use Loki’s old name as well. “Farewell, William Scarabough.”

Before he could leave, he saw Loki turn his back, but visibly wrestling with some words. It took a second before he was able to say them. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your Marian.”

Fandral turned around as well, but he hadn’t to struggle with his words like his old friend. “And I’m sorry about your Jane.”


	9. A Knight on the Side cannot abide

 

In retrospect, she should have known that attending the autopsy of the Hulk-creature would make her sick. To be more precise, Wanda should have known a few years ago, from the moment the decided to attend postmortems for her clinical elective, but back then, she had been too stubborn and stupid to even acknowledge her sensitivity concerning this faculty. But then again, if she had done so, it wouldn't have saved her from her current predicament in any way. Moreover, her personal attendance hadn't changed a thing in her view; the subject had been previously animated by necromancy, full stop, and for that conclusion, no autopsy was needed. While the Hulk's anatomy was certainly intriguing, she would have much preferred to read about it in the autopsy report. But for that matter, what she just witnessed was not a proper postmortem per se, rather a dissection, or butchery in the most common of senses.

Who had had the idea of doing the autopsy in the Stark Tower’s medical facility anyway? She took a short moment of time to rest her head against the cool surface of the elevator cabin. Cold – cold was good. Cold somehow alleviated the feeling of nausea to a level where it could possibly ignored. That would be welcome, as she would hate to appear such a sissy when the elevator door slid open and a woman entered. She was rather pretty, with wavy red hair, luscious curves, long eyelashes and a lovely, symmetric face. She wore fashionable clothes and had her hair done in a practical ponytail. But her eyes were cold and calculating as she studied Wanda, who had straightened the moment the elevator door had opened. The woman simply stood beside her, chose the floor and waited. The elevator door closed and with a quick motion, she hit the emergency stop button and turned to Wanda.

“Shall we play a game?”

Okay. Wanda had just dissected a giant green monster. Strange women quoting old movie lines weren’t the oddest thing she had seen today, so she felt her eyebrows arching while she organized her thoughts to figure out what exactly to think . “Whatever you have for me, bring it on.” She said, her voice a little more tired than she really was.

The woman’s smile faded after she nodded in appreciation, then got down to business, although her tone remained reserved and friendly. “I’m Natasha. You must be Wanda. I’ve heard much about you and it’s about time we had a little chat.”

Natasha? As in Natasha Romanoff? Of course, Barton would never go against his duties for S.H.I.E.L.D. and tell her about a girl he successfully recruited by sparing her life, in a similar fashion he had done with Wanda, no less. At least, he wouldn’t do that officially. Privately, he might have mentioned that Natasha was by far the most talented spy he ever met and gave him a brilliant chase when they first met. She had impressed him with unusual skills, and he had respected those so much, he didn’t want her to end.

Yes, Wanda was curious about this woman. And apparently, this woman liked to open in a playful way or wanted to think Wanda so. So, it was only prudent to play along for the time being.

“What’s the name of the game, then?” Wanda asked, smiling politely and adjusting her body language to a neutral, businesslike stance.

The smile dawned again in the corner of Romanoff’s mouth. “Perception.” Then she eyed Wanda from head to toe, like she was analyzing every detail. “Clear nail polish, subtle make-up, all done with skilled hand and I bet that hair didn’t magically fall into place either. Aren’t we a bit vain for working in the basement or are we dating? Questions, questions …”

So Ms. Romanoff wanted to play Sherlock Scan? That was a game Wanda played differently, and for some reason, was a bit more eager to play than she thought. Perhaps the thought of going head to head with a world-class spy in social matters had more appeal than it was given credit. But judging a person’s character by analyzing clothes and hairdo wasn’t Wanda’s style. She rather trusted in her intuition and the general feeling she got from a person. From her studies she knew that she subconsciously simply interpreted the same facts and perceptions that Natasha did consciously, but it was still a different approach. “You, however, take an aggressive stance while carefully hiding your usual modus operandi to throw me off-guard. It was rather hastily done, so you didn’t know what to expect from me. Is she dangerous? Is she a normal person? Or does she have weaknesses like any other?”

“I think that she is vain, considering how quickly she jumped to the chance.” Subtlely, barely perceptible, Natasha adjusted her body weight, and Wanda was pretty sure she had done that deliberately. Other than that and a slight variance in the stance of her feet, the spy had the uncanny ability to appear perfectly normal and at the same time offering scarcely any information about her. “Going for these kind of challenges indicates a much more active and adventurous persona under the air of sadness. Make-up hides shades under the eyes - insomnia. Symptom of clinical depression.”

“How cheap. That’s in the files.” Wanda smiled. Usually, the mention of her being struck by this illness would trigger an episode of dark thoughts and misery. But now, she just enjoyed the game that got so playfully under the skin without hurting.

“True. I wanted to see a reaction, but I’m a little surprised.” Romanoff explained, her face still carefully polite, but ultimately neutral.

“Let’s see. Approaches me with playfulness, switches gears and calls for a game … to what end?” Wanda mused.

“Secrets.”

“Secrets?” Wanda arched an eyebrow. “Which secret did I tell you?”

“The secret that you answer if challenged, but that you are not spiteful, nor hurtful. That is very important to me.” Indeed, the spy looked like she was very relieved, as if she initiated the whole test and had several scenarios played beforehand. Perhaps that was exactly what happened … that would explain her seemingly chaotic behaviour, since this kind of strategy quickly brought out the truth about a conversational partner, but it was a gamble. It was also prudent to assume that Natasha knew about Wanda’s rudimentary psychological training during her medical studies, and that she would come to this conclusion. Ergo: The gamble hadn’t been a gamble, but a way to throw her off-guard again about her personality. Plans within plans - this woman was rational and cautious without being lethargic. In a way, they had much in common. “Did you uncover a secret?”

“Oh yes. You chose to show me said switch of gears. You told me that you have many faces and can be everyone and everywhere.” It was a subtle threat, if Wanda wanted to see it as a threat. She chose instead to see it as a statement, as a simple fact. “People who act like another person just portrait one part of themselves. They can do it better if they have an anchor, if they have a sense of identity. You know exactly who you are and where you stand, and that gives you strength.”

The glance that Natasha gave her was almost approving, and when the elevator finally moved, she got out the next stop and left Wanda with her thoughts. What an intense woman … no wonder Clint had been impressed with her. In a way, that little game had been bracing, so Wanda let out a sigh and waited until she arrived at the basement to step out of the elevator.

She had been given access to the laboratory previously occupied by Dr. Banner, and his ghost seemed to loom behind every corner. The whole floor deep beneath the surface was designed to keep the Hulk in check, with thick walls, massively built furniture and a lot of security protocols firmly put into place. But it was also a floor where Dr. Banner had conducted his experiments and pursued his scientific interests, which had made the need protection against radiation paramount while Wanda couldn’t even guessed the purpose of the equipment and devices the laboratory was flooded with. But the high security also meant that the floor was built to house Bruce Banner alone most of the time, and he had insisted to refrain from cleaning personnel.

So, the first thing Wanda had done after setting herself on a desk that looked mostly unused, she had armed herself with rug, mop and bucket and started scrubbing. It was so much easier to clean other people's messes than one's own. She had noticed that while Dr. Banner was by no means an overly neat person, he had a strange order in the piles of notes and chaos, one that she didn’t comprehend or dare to disturb. So she had cleaned around places that looked like they were abandoned in the middle of some work and had left any documents or instruments untouched as good as she could, only lifting them and putting them carefully back exactly into place when she felt that she had no other choice whatsoever if the war against bacteria was to be won. Bruce Banner was also apparently something of a forgetful sweet-tooth, since she had found no less than four pastries that might have been doughnuts in another lifetime. Complete and utter cleaning was the only answer to this revolting habit, but she had spared the two well-hidden candy stashes, merely checked the contents for date of expiry, but otherwise left them alone. Despite the fact that she most likely prevented Hulk-radiated doughnut-mould from taking over the world, she had made herself a mental note to thoroughly apologize to Dr. Banner if he ever returned and bake him some pastries.

That's why she was so taken aback and even a little irritated when she discovered that all the instruments, devices and notes she had so carefully avoided were disturbed, shoved aside and replaced by new ones. There was even a carelessly thrown bag occupying the chair that Wanda had used to sit on when doing research the last two days. Or at least, that was the furniture she had allowed herself to use and leave Dr. Banners privacy mostly intact. This plan had been evidently thrown to pieces – not violently, but without care. In the center of the laboratory, presented like a piece of art was a strange spear-like weapon that in the witch's eyes glowed with magic. This one too was circled with devices that a layman like her couldn't possibly identify – she only knew that she had avoided them while cleaning. And just when she thought that the sheer space within this laboratory couldn't possibly be filled, a newcomer appeared and proved her wrong.

Said newcomer was standing not far away from the magical staff, deep in a conversation with Steve Rogers – that man seemed to be everywhere. The woman herself was petite, and as Wanda had to admit to herself with a little envy, rather pretty. They both must have been roughly the same age, but this woman's brown eyes shone brightly while she spoke, her features delicate and soft, her complexion flawless and her fine chestnut hair worn loose. This woman wasn't even pretty anymore; she was by all means beautiful.

So this was Jane Foster whom she heard so much about. From all the talk, she had to be a sweet girl with a strong sense of morality, paired with a genius intellect. It was her that had inspired Thor to take Earth under his protection – that at least was the word. She also looked very lively and enthusiastic while explaining Captain Rogers about what sounded like theories about radiation. Her conversational partner just smiled and nodded occasionally, politely pretending to be interested.

When she approached, Ms. Foster turned around and acknowledged Wanda's presence by making the briefest of eye-contacts. Perhaps Wanda could simply weasle herself out of introductions while she talked to the Captain. Furthermore, she was definitely distracted by the glowing magic staff that she had heard so much about.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? I don’t know where the energy source is, either.” She heard Jane Foster say, and unglued her gaze from the staff. Before she could open her mouth to answer something, Ms. Foster continued. “You’re staff?” She smiled a little. “Because I so don’t know my way around here.”

Somehow, the implications of being an underling that came with the term ‘staff’ felt demeaning, although it wasn’t incorrect. But there was a way to rescue this situation in Wanda’s eyes - she just had learned that unconventional greetings built bridges and rescued moods even if a scientist had messed up Bruce Banner’s workplace. So she turned around, putting her hands folded behind her back and kept her face as straight and polite as possible, while she modulated her voice to sound meek and demure. “How do you do, I’m Wanda. I’m the tower’s resident witch for the time being.”

While Steve Rogers raised both eyebrows, Jane Foster took the information with remarkable casualness. “Oh. I didn’t know we had those.” She simply said, drawing an unbelieving look from the man beside her.

Lo and behold, that girl evidently had had some experience with the supernatural. Even Wanda was stunned for a moment to hear that. Perhaps she had misjudged this person, as she seemed genuinely not joking. Perhaps she thought out of the box and accepted sorcery. Interesting.

“I mean, Loki did his illusions somehow and was called a sorcerer. I would love to know how the process worked. Do you think I can run a few tests?” Jane asked, now sounding even a little greedy.

She couldn’t know, but Wanda had strong opinions concerning tests on human subjects like herself. When she used to run with her father, he was a criminal, but he also had a point. They would raid mainly medical facilities and free the ‘Gifted’ within from being further subjugated to tests. These tests were oftentimes immoral, hurtful, intrusive, and sometimes even deadly. She felt sick to her stomach and knew that her discomfort must have displayed on her face. She turned to the staff before she said something rude or uncalled for, pretending to study it.

“So.” She finally said when she felt a little better, quickly changing the subject. “You have experience with sorcerers? I hope my kind didn’t disappoint.”

”Well … Loki invaded New York, killed hundreds of good people AND mind-controlled a dear friend of mine, so yes, I’m not disappointed.” Oh dear. Jane Foster revealed a lot in this little speech, not only that she had strong feelings about this invasion - naturally, this was her home that was attacked, the people she knew that were slaughtered, and her friend that was used like a tool. But she showed also determination, stubbornness and above all, _spirit_. All in all, even if currently a little annoyed and working up her anger, she was still an impressive woman, as Wanda hated to admit to herself.

“My sympathies.” Even if it sounded rehearsed, Wanda felt herself softening up, all her frustration melting when she pictured the helplessness that woman must be feeling - losing friends and colleagues was something that she had experienced mere days ago. “It’s not easy recovering from mind control, and your friend will find himself in an unusual predicament. We have to make it count.” There was no comfort she could give or this spirited young lady would accept for the act of violence done to her friend. She attempted to turn around to investigate the staff further, but was yet again interrupted by an outraged Jane Foster.

“How can you be so cold about this?” The astrophysicist sounded almost hurt, but more than that, she was annoyed, even appalled. What was that coming from? Was she now held responsible and accused not to care? It just wasn’t turned to anger; when she saw the missing buildings in this bustling city that was great and mighty New York, she just didn't feel angry. She felt rather sad, and sadness was something she forbade herself right now.

“Anger is not my natural state, Ms. Foster.” She had calmed down and her voice had returned to the gentle, smooth tone she was accustomed to, but that only served to provoke the other woman even further, it seemed. Wanda side-glanced to the gentleman in the room, who looked awfully uncomfortable, eying the exit and obviously ready to flee the scene, and she couldn't fault him for that.

So it came more or less as a surprise that she saw something glimmering in the corner of her eye, turned her attention to it and frowned when she discovered familiar symbols on the scepter that was so important to all of them. “You couldn't tap the energy within, no?” Wanda’s gaze was fixed on the staff, which made her question look like a side-note.

“No ...” If one could get drunk on anger and frustration, Jane Foster had just sobered up from one moment to the other, stepping closer and appearing now like the professional astrophysicist she was. “No, but I don't know why. There's clearly the tesseract's energy signature, but it's inaccessible. I first thought it was the material, but that's a simple ferrous alloy with a few precious metals molten in. Radiation tests have been made over the last year, but I can't imagine that radiation could have this effect on an energy source ...”

“You can't tap it because it's warded against humans.” Clever. It appeared as if the previous wielder of this scepter had allowed the possibility of it falling into the wrong hands. Warding an item against a specific race was a time-consuming and complicated process, one that required intimate knowledge and high skill in magic. Failing that, blood sacrifices helped a lot as well, and from the look of things, this ward was made with the latter method. So crude, so sloppy, so disgusting.

Wanda slowly reached out for the staff's hilt, feeling the magic prickle on her skin, and bracing herself, grasped it carefully. She immediately felt her focus faltering, some force scratching at the fortress of her mind. _Kill the rage. Kill the fear. Kill the pain._ Clenching her teeth, she steeled her mental defense, which was more brittle than she was used to. Only when she did felt secure enough, she finally closed her hand around the hilt, feeling the magic pulsing inside. The spear was heavy, heavier than she thought, strange in design, too short for a proper spear – nothing human to be sure. The blades at the head of it looked as vicious as the magic inside felt, while simultaneously feeling like something that more distant and yet much more broad and powerful, at the point of almost being overwhelming. After the initial flood, it steadied itself on a constant pressure on the mind, like a background headache.

More importantly, she could access the magic within.

“A racist ward. It doesn't recognize me as human.” There were small beads of sweat on her forehead, she was shaking ever so slightly, but felt elated nevertheless. That was one of the heaviest enchantments she had ever seen, and she had managed to pass it and successfully, if barely evaded the mind-controlling feature of the device. “I would recommend psych evaluations for everyone who has been in the proximity. It radiates a field ...”

“Wait.” The astrophysicist interrupted again. Couldn't that woman let people finish their sentences? “Why doesn’t it recognize you? Because you are a witch?”

“And a mutant, thank you very much.” Wanda felt far too exultant to feel threatened or offended now, even if Miss Foster herself sounded more skeptical than hostile. If the witch would take offense at any slight thrust upon her, imagined or real, she would soon go on a rampage of destruction, and that would really be despicable. Not to mention rude. “As I mentioned before, it is my opinion that psych evaluations for individuals who have been in close proximity are necessary.” When the witch laid the spear down, the painful pressure on her temples receded, letting her breath a sigh of relief. “I think this staff generates a responsive field that feels somewhat empathic, but also manipulating. It also feels more like a channeling device with only traces of what it was before. It must have been very scary at its height. Still, I can try to ward it, but ...”

Again, it was Jane Foster who interrupted mid-sentence. What a foul habit that woman had developed. “Hold on. If you block the field, then you block the energy source. I need to take measurements. I could use that data to locate residues and traces which could lead us directly to Loki, or even better, finally open a stable Einstein-Rosen-Bridge. You have no idea how long I've waited for … “ She obviously stopped herself before throwing around technical terms, which was considerate given that she was close to lecturing. “I need that energy source unlocked.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Foster. I'm not experimenting with an unknown magical source that could manipulate an unknown number of people in an unknown magnitude in the middle of New York. These are too many unknowns for my taste.” Wanda stated diplomatically, retaining every ounce of poise she possessed, how difficult it may be. She even tried to smile in a friendly manner, but the smile never reached the eyes. “I'm sure that after safety measures are firmly in place, we can find a mutually beneficial solu-”

“How long will it take?” The scientist was outright snappish now.

“Hours, days. Perhaps even a week. I don't know exactly what I'm dealing with. It should be alright, though, the field is mostly dormant at the present ti-”

“Yeah, and while you chant and read your tea leaves, who knows what is enjoying his hostage. Way to go.”

“I was under the impression that this was my call to make.” She glanced at Captain Rogers, making an offering gesture.

The Captain didn't hesitate a second and addressed Wanda in a firm manner. “I agree: your call. Safety first.” He turned to Jane Foster, still polite and proper, but missing the warmth underneath that came so natural to him. “I'm sorry.”

Clearly displeased and frustrated, Jane shrugged, and she couldn't do without throwing a barb. “Very well. I'll get myself a cat then to pass the time.” With that, she left the scene in a huff, and to be completely honest, Wanda felt a small amount of relief because of the potential danger averted and presence of willful scientist relieved.

“We're not done here.” Steve Rogers still had an air of professionalism and confidence around him while he spoke to the witch. “You said it radiates a manipulating field.”

“Weak, but definitely there. Keep your focus up and you will be fine for now.”

“This isn't going to cut it. The last time Loki waved that thing around, he controlled people left and right.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Good people. We need to know how we can defend against it.”

Wanda took a deep breath before carefully weighing her answer. “You can't.” Her statement was simple and met by a frown from Captain and Agent alike. “Don't get me wrong; one can deter the untrained, weak and inexperienced, but that's not the category you are asking about. When the situation and the adversary is this powerful, you can only delay the inevitable. With that device fully powered up and used by an accomplished sorcerer, the targeted mind will be overwhelmed. I was trained by Mastermind himself against telepathic illusions since I was a child and regularly targeted by an enchanter for most of my adult life. I'm good.” Even though at least Mr. Rogers was unlikely to comprehend the degree of her references, she hoped that her statement wasn't misinterpreted as boasting, but as the matter of fact it was. She had little confidence in her ability to control her magic, but it could never be said that she wasn't well-trained. “But if a powerful telepath or enchanter would try to take over, I couldn't delay the process for more than a few seconds.”

“A few seconds can decide a battle.” Rogers reminded her with a kind and slightly amused smile. Recalling her own meager combat experience, she inwardly agreed.

“Words are pretty, but demonstration is better.” She finally said, pulling up a chair and positioning it in the middle of the room. “You see, the mind is not unlike the body in this matter. Mr. Rogers, would you do me the honors?” She couldn't help but smile as this huge man was apparently struck by sudden shyness as he approached slowly and after some hesitation. “Don't worry, Captain. I assure you, I hold no dominion over the mind.”

He laughed nervously and even made the effort of joking. “That's what you say.” He didn't object or offered any resistance when she guided him into position ready to sit down on the chair, while the seat pressed into his legs.

Not taking the palms off his shoulders, Wanda looked up to the soldier. “Captain, I'd like you to disobey when I ask you to sit down, yes?” He was clearly bewildered, but nodded in response. The witch now took her time to do up a button on his shirt that had loosened and brushed some imaginary dust from his shoulders. She could see him shift, but he wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, he even seemed to be a little entertained. Only then she took a step back, retaining the air of friendly teasing. “Please sit down, Mr. Rogers.”

“Uhm … no?”

Wanda took another step back, closed her eyes and summoned all the strength she could muster, pulled every trick she knew: straightening back and shoulders, lifted her chin, rose to full height and let all the authority, all her will and all the fire she had thought to be forgotten run to every fiber of her being. When she opened her eyes again, she threw all her force of will, all her strength into his face, her voice nothing short of a roar.

“I said **SIT**!”

A moment later, valiant Captain America sat on his chair, looking awfully surprised at her and himself in equal measure. It actually took him a moment to regain his composure, his brow wrinkled in concern and confusion. “What just happened?”

“You tell me, Captain Rogers. I just told you to sit down.” Wanda smiled in amusement.

“I didn't see that coming.”

“Exactly.” Her smile faded as she got down to business to explain what she had wanted to demonstrate in this way. “Your defenses were down, so to speak. Your periphery was breached, your personal space invaded, you were unfocused, lulled into false security and – pardon me for saying so – not taking the situation or me seriously. But worst of all, subconsciously, you never really and truly objected to sit down.” She watched closely to make sure that Mr. Rogers wasn't cross with her, but he took it in a sporting manner. No big surprise there. Agent Coulson had raised both eyebrows, but said nothing. “The mind is like the body. If hurt by lingering injury, violence or torture, it will succumb much more easily to assault.”

“Like an infection has an easy time when a wound isn't bound.” Steve Rogers added pensively.

“Precisely, that's why your emotional training to counter PTSD and general positive disposition is helping the case. But the true danger lies in what a person subconsciously willing to do. A true pacifist, even if fully mind-controlled, can never be forced to kill if it absolutely disagrees with his nature. The key lies in conditioning yourself, to affirm your own nature and turn it against the invader. It's not “I will not bow.”, as the sub-conscience will only hear “bow”. It's rather “I will stand my ground.”, then it hears “mine”. It must be that simple.”

There was a short and pensive silence, and while Mr. Rogers stroked his chin, and he addressed the witch with a mixture of amusement and enlightenment on his face. “Can you work out a training program?”

“I can devise a supplemental for the training program I suspect your agents receive.”

The Captain visibly took his time to contemplate the situation. “So he was right.” He looked not only pondering anymore, but even a little disheartened.

“I beg your pardon?”

He raised his head, but otherwise, he had slumped himself on a rather comfortable position on his chair. He tried to search for words, even uttered a brief laugh of helplessness. “Well … someone said that humanity craved subjugation. That's it, isn't it? When all thoughts are wiped away, human nature just wants to be commanded.”

“What? That's rubbish!” Wanda could barely withhold a laugh. “Humanity craves to be fed, appreciated and to explore. Don't you even know the basics, Captain?” Her smile just broadened as she offered a helping hand to rise. “Who said that?”

At first, it looked like the soldier had a long explanation for her in store. In the last moment however, he thought the better of it and shook his head, gladly accepting her extended hand to rise from the chair. “An idiot.” He forced himself to smile. “A raving idiot. I’m one as well to even listen to him.”

“Misanthropy just doesn’t deserve to take root.”

“Another thing, though … you said that mind control can’t change a person.” He back-pedaled to watch for her approval, and was simply gestured to go on. “What about Barton?”

Ah. That was the way the wind was blowing. Clint had privately confided with Wanda already on this subject; he had been dominated by this very device she was examining, and had already described in detail what had happened to him. But she had thought the mind-controlling powers originally coming from the wielder of the scepter, but this was not the case. That wasn’t the Captain’s question, however, and the question was something very private, so she shook her head. “I know what you speak of, but I don’t discuss my friends’ profile with …” Strangers? Random charming army officers? She had to settle on something before the silence became awkward. “... acquaintances.”

To her surprise, Steve Rogers smiled at her briefly in a way that seemed appreciative and raised his hands defensively. “It’s not about profiles, honestly. But … understand: I’m his commanding officer. His well-being’s my responsibility. I’ve already talked about this with him and he’s quite open.”

What did he want from her, then?

He wasn’t so much struggling for words as she suspected he would. Indeed, when she talked with him, he seemed to switch between a shy boy and a straight and righteous soldier who was able and accustomed to command. So he continued firmly. “He told me everything he could. What I want from you is another opinion, something that Barton might not even know himself. Is that all right?”

Was it? On one hand, she didn’t like the thought of sharing her knowledge about the person who supported her time and time again, but on the other hand, Captain Rogers obviously genuinely cared about Clint. Wanda decided that she still considered it a kind of betrayal to just spill everything and opted to tell the Captain what he already knew, but hadn’t considered before.

“Captain Rogers, you are a war veteran. What can you tell me about the personality of a classical sniper?”

He briefly furrowed his brow, but straightened his shoulders and folded his hands behind his back, as if in recital. “Intelligent, cool head even under heavy fire. Reliable. Efficient. Patient. It’s odd … they go to war, kill people in spades and then go drinking a beer like nothing’s happened.”

“Their profiles all look similar. Also, they are not in a great danger to get shell-shocked. But tell me, have you ever heard what happens when a sniper cracks?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t happen to me or my unit, but I’ve heard a story. Don’t know if it’s true.” When he saw her questioning look, he elaborated. “In a recon unit, the sniper just went dingo and disappeared into the woods. Then he hunted his own unit down, one by one. The weakest first, then he worked himself through to the strongest. Only two people were left in the end.”

Wanda nodded slowly - that was exactly what was to be expected if the situation was too much for a person to handle. “What did he do, then? What part of his nature did he appeal to?”

It didn’t take him long to find the answer, although he expressed it as though he was solving a riddle for himself. “A … hunter. Going for the kill, not for battle.”

“And that is exactly what Hawkeye is at the end of the day.” Wanda concluded solemnly. “He is as loyal and level-headed as your next sniper in battle, but at heart, he’s a predator.” One that enjoys the fruit of his labor and takes an intellectual satisfaction from a job well and efficiently done, but she kept that one to herself. “But never forget what Clint Barton respects most: Competence. When he sees something or someone who displays a great deal of competence, he wants to keep and preserve it.” He will either join what he perceives as competence, or want to hunt it down. Morals didn’t matter much in this, but that was something she didn’t dare to tell the good-hearted captain. When the hunt was open, Clint Barton didn’t want it to end. Simple as that. “But you knew that already, no?”

The soldier before he nodded slowly. “You didn’t tell me anything new, I guess.” Of course he had seen through her little scheme, he wasn’t stupid. It was nice for him to play along, perhaps to appease her conscience, perhaps to confirm his supposed knowledge. It didn’t matter much, she still felt a little guilty.

“I would like to keep that between ourselves, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing.” She half-expected him to turn into the shy boy again, but his confidence didn’t falter; he remained sure of himself when he extended his hand to her. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Evidently, he had not forgotten about being called an acquaintance. Even if he was just that, who was she to refuse such a charming gesture that felt as genuine as the whole man did? “Wanda.” She exclaimed, shaking his hand in confirmation. He gave her hand one last, gentle squeeze, then left her to her pile of work.


	10. Twofold Bind

 

Fun fact: Getting things clean was the hardest part of the whole work.

Pepper sighed, sitting at her desk in the Avengers Tower and checking her appointments she would have in the morrow. Although she should have retired already for the night, now that this building was actually in use, she had been busy with arrangements for the Tower. Tony had insisted that only approved personnel would have access, but he had failed to think about the practical fact how less than ten people were supposed to keep a 35 story building clean.

Even now that most of the cleaning process was automatized, it still meant that there had to be engineering personnel, which were hard to get by if it meant that they were to supervise and maintain floor cleaning. Not only did she need that kind of qualified personnel in the laboratories of Stark Industries, she had also had to pay higher wages for undignifying work. To make things worse, Tony had insisted that only trusted and approved personnel with routine combat training in the case of invasion was in place, which narrowed the pool of qualified personnel even further. In the end, she had been so desperate that she had gotten in touch with Maria Hill, her new contact in S.H.I.E.L.D. after Phil’s demise to get that kind of work done. Tony wasn’t amused, but then again, he had set the almost impossible standards. Now, she had a staff full of S.H.I.E.L.D.-Agents on “leave of absence for undefined time” to keep the carpet vacuumed.

But she should look at the bright side: Most of these agents were thrilled fanboys and -girls; so they were very enthusiastic and productive for the time being. She had to keep that up. Memo: Buy more expensive coffee for enhanced staff efficiency.

That reminded her that she didn’t like the girl sitting on the front desk down on the ground floor. What was her name again? Indries Mooji? Whatever. She would have forgotten that name by this time tomorrow.

“Uh .. hello?”

When Pepper looked up, she saw a young woman standing in the doorway of her office. She head brown eyes, long, dark hair and wore black--framed glasses. She wore a bit too much make-up while her clothes were a bit more legére. Her voice was a bit squeaky and her broad grin just a tiny bit sheepish.

“Hello … you are with Jane Foster’s crew, aren’t you?” Pepper asked, searching for the name of this person in her memories. “Darcy, wasn’t it?”

Darcy’s smile broadened even more, while she seated herself unabashedly at Pepper’s table. “It’s nice to be recognized for a change. I was just exploring the tower. I think I need better walking boots.” She propped her chin on her palm, leaning with her elbows on the desk. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” Pepper was half in a mind to shoo that girl away, than she decided that she welcomed the company. “Crunching numbers, keeping things clean, doing the paperwork nobody wants to do …”

“You’re the Girl Friday.” Darcy grinned. “I sorta do the same thing, you know, being an intern.”

The Girl Friday. That was a term Pepper hadn’t heard for quite some time, but she outgrown this role for quite some time now. She was no secretary anymore, she was Tony’s equal in everything but superheroing. Leaning back in her chair, she allowed herself to reminisce about the time when she was just a Tony’s personal assistant in the company who had to use pepper spray to make a calculation error known before it could blow up a meeting. That was rather violent and she abhorred it, but at that time, it was a question of money and accuracy. And nobody ever accused her of being inaccurate in her work.

“You forgot to keep an eye on the competition.” She smiled, still remembering those times fondly when things were simple and tidy.

“How does the competition look, then?” Darcy asked, but Pepper was pretty sure that she only asked because she had nothing better to do and wanted to keep the conversation going.

“Like Justin Hammer. He’s a prick, but now he just covers his losses. Strange thing though, he has stopped trying to buy shares of Stark Industries.” How he had managed to buy himself out of prison after he had hired a known criminal and murderer to let that man unleash combat drones on the guests of an expo, she still didn’t know. Sometimes, having money was enough, it seemed. Justin Hammer proved it. But now that she mentioned it, it was rather odd for Hammer to just leave the matter be when he was so hell-bent on humiliating Tony Stark. “A penny for his thoughts.” She wondered, since him doing nothing all of a sudden meant that he had a new strategy, but she had no idea what that might be.

“That’s easy.” Darcy fluted, pulling out her phone. “Got his private e-mail address?”

As the matter of fact, Pepper did. Hammer, even after all this time, still tried to hit on Pepper every time he saw her and thus, she had his e-mail for private matters many times over. But did that girl just imply to hack Justin Hammer’s e-mail account? He was one of the most profilic figures of the business world, and she deluded herself that his account was even close to hackable?

Well, savviness wasn’t Hammer’s strongest suit. Perhaps it was possible and worth a try. “You can do that?” She asked, just to make sure.

“Yup. I got an app for that.” Darcy said as if she was just asked if she had not forgotten to buy eggs.

What were the chances? As the more mature and sensible person in this room, It was Pepper’s holy duty to remind that girl that hacking into other people’s accounts was wrong, that privacy was to be respected and that she was a law-abiding person. Then she should scold the girl and sent her on her way.

Instead, Pepper recalled Justin Hammer’s slimy grin, and she wordlessly produced his address from her handbag. “Ok, I’ll cover the tracks you see what you can do.”

“Sure.” Darcy fluted in response, and it took only a short time before she giggled. “His password was love123. What an idiot.”

Pepper reminded herself to change her personal password as soon as possible before she and Darcy, both excited and with wide grins on their faces, started rummaging through Justin Hammer’s private messages.  
The first mail was apparently from one of his friends, just casual talk. The second mail was a case for the junk folder, which was a favour they graciously did for Hammer. The third one however made Pepper’s brow furrow.

“What’s up?” Darcy asked, chewing on her lower lip. “That guy is a big business-mojo-something, so he has to play with the stock market.”

“Yes.” Pepper answered, reading further. “But he’s moving funds around for seemingly nonsensical projects and he tips one of his friends off that Stark Industries is going to collapse within the year. What the hell?” She shook her head. “Why would he say something like that? Perhaps his friend isn’t a friend and Hammer just plays him … ”

“ … or he knows something you don’t know.” Darcy continued. Following Pepper’s scrutinizing glance, she added a semi-meek “Just saying.”.

Pepper sighed heavily. “Looks like he has hired some muscle in the industrial espionage area. How does one counter that is apparently already done?” She talked more to herself than to Darcy, whom she had to thank that she was now aware of the problem. Industrial espionage was always a factor in the business and there were always measures in place to counter this. But why did Justin Hammer delude himself that Stark Industries, one of the most successful corporations in the world, would collapse within a year’s time? She clicked through the mails and found the name of an informant in this espionage-game, one that apparently fed Justin Hammer his information.

Who was the Spymaster?

 

* * *

 

Tony Stark had a peculiar definition of ‘guest bedroom’, which turned out to be bigger than any apartment Wanda had ever lived in, aside from the house where she was a guest of Agatha’s. Having been a poor student most of her adult life or sharing a home with her family, she wasn’t really used to that much space of her own, even if it was only a temporary living situation.

It wasn’t a cozy or comfortable place, but elegant in design; geometric figures were the architect’s inspiration, while the furniture and carpet held shades of black and grey in varying degrees. There was something cold and reserved to these rooms, but the bed was soft and clean, so it had everything Wanda could possibly wish for. Furthermore, there was even a fully stocked and furnished kitchen. She was safe and cared for in this place, and yet she had the feeling of getting lost in these large, spacious rooms.

“Dreaming again?” Steve asked, a gentle smile on his face while he looked up from the cooking pot. He had visited a few times now, staying for a few minutes as if to make sure Wanda was in good health. She suspected that Clint had set him up to this, since this was exactly the thing he would do. The first morning, Wanda had been in a dark mood and didn’t want to get out of bed. So, Clint had dragged her by the feet into the shower, literally. His tough approach worked, and she felt herself getting out of bed and to work in the Tower’s laboratory easier day by day. To be completely honest, a gorgeous and caring young man checking every now and then was a very good incentive as well. This evening, he had decided to stay so they could cook dinner together. Or rather, he would cook dinner and she assisted and did the dishes so that it at least the work would be allocated equally.

“Maybe.” She replied, as nothing better came to her mind. Thousands of possible answers, and she chose the most boring. Now that the word was out, she couldn’t take it back, so she decided to change the subject. “How’s the stew?”

“What do you think? How are you?” He jokingly asked the cooking pot before he concluded. “Happy and bubbling.”

Wanda smiled while she took the next chopping board to wash it. “That’s the good thing about stew. It’s easily amused. That’s why our ancestors when they first figured out how to use a stick had stew for dinner.” She heard Steve stepping away from the stove, but her eyes were transfixed on her dishes. “I’m still amazed that you can cook anyway. I can only warm things up. If it were up to me, I could live eating pasta and packet soups. Real cooking is simply beyond me. How did you learn that?”

“Learning by doing. It was just me and my mother for a long time, and she had the firm opinion that any child of hers had to be able to take care of himself.” She heard him say in the background, but it sounded rehearsed, like his mind was on something else. “Some things never change through time. Stew, for example.”

That wasn’t quite correct. There were a lot more spices now that he could choose from, which he did with care, but in the end, the recipe for stew was an universal matter: snip everything into a pot, boil it in broth and voilá, stew done. So, some things always stayed the same.

“Considering what you have missed in your time in the ice, cooking must be something very familiar.” Smiling to herself, she started to wash the next dish. “I mean, you have so much pop culture to take in: You missed David Bowie, Queen and Christopher Walken in all his glory, not to mention movies. They weren’t considered a piece of art in your time, but nowadays, art via film is a quite accepted and appreciated nowadays.”

“Yes.” He replied from the background, his amused smile audible. “We weren’t quite sure that film would ever be something more than cheap entertainment.” That was the same thing that was said about video games nowadays. Movies like ‘Citizen Cane’ or ‘Dead Poet’s Society’ were proof enough in the argument that film was a medium to be taken seriously, one that had a place in modern art. On day, video games and animation movies would have proved themselves as a medium of art as well. Times changed, and so did art, the ultimate expression of culture.

“Seriously, I know that you time is scarce, but there are some things to take in catching up about the last decades. It has had so much impact on the world, even wizards can’t ignore it anymore. One of my colleagues for example used ABBA-songs to fuel her spells.” Every sorcerer chose for himself how he expressed his magic. Wanda herself was a rather traditional case, using materials and symbols like a typical english wizard would do. But it was not unheard of to sing and dance to cast the own spells. The only thing one had to worry about was looking ridiculous. But in the end, it wasn’t that much of a stretch; whether one drew a circle and started chanting, called upon the might of Greyskull or singing ‘Take a chance on me’ to ensorcel someone, one was sure to draw funny looks. “When you have the time, you should watch a few movies like ‘Chinatown’, ‘Blade Runner’, all the ‘Matrix’ movies, ‘Twilight Zone’ …” She gasped, just realizing something. “... and Doctor Who! Dear me, there are fifty years of Doctor Who just waiting to be discovered by Steve Rogers.”

She could practically hear him arch both eyebrows doubtfully, but wasn’t deterred in her scheming how to best show Steve Rogers a series about a sad man in a box. “Personally, I’m a fan of Ten, so I think you should start with a few episodes of the new series. Or perhaps the vintage old ones? I also like Three and Six very much, and they had their moments …”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you will in time.” Wanda concluded happily, her mind already working to chose a few best-of-episodes to really get her point across. After all, the Captain’s time was scarce, and she had to make the best of it.

He most likely wasn’t really convinced and she heard him turning around, then changing the subject with a question. “Who’s that?”

Turning around, Wanda saw what he meant. He pointed at the only thing that gave the apartment a personal touch and an indication at all that a person was living there: The picture she saw when Agent Coulson first had opened her files. It was a rather recent picture of her surviving family, and she had asked Steve to procure a copy if possible, which he had done without questioning up until now.

She dried her hands and stepped closer to the shelf where she had placed the picture. “My family.” Her voice held a strange undertone of regret and sorrow, although she had aspired to keep it neutral. She even let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yes, that’s the evil Magneto in the flesh.” She pointed and the older man with grey hair. All of them in the Lehnsherr family tree looked very much alike: Statuesque but wiry build, almond-shaped and light-colored eyes, lean faces, smooth features, slightly pronounced cheekbones, slender hips. The men could also pride themselves with a strong jaw.

“Evil is a strong word.” Steve said, his eyes never leaving the picture.

“I don’t think anybody thinks himself evil at all, even if he or she is guilty of the acts of a villain.” She nodded, as if her words needed additional affirmation. “Nobody thinks themselves evil. They think themselves right. My father is a very good example of that. What he has done in the past is detailed in your files, and some of these things are undoubtedly true.” She paused. “Unless it’s about murdering presidents; that wasn’t him. Anyway, he did all this because he thought he would protect his people. He genuinely thinks that if he doesn’t act first, his people will be destroyed. The worst thing is that he is proven right time and time again.”

“And what do you think?” Roger’s question was quiet and intense, and she wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t judge her if he sensed that she would gloss over the truth or outright lie.

It was a little uncomfortable, and the words only came out slowly, as if afraid. “Once, I believed him. Then, I thought him wrong. Today, I think that there is no right answer, just opinions.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I only know that as a father, he’s strict, demanding, but kind. If you call him a criminal and dangerous, you would be right as well.”

“So in the end, he’s your father and that’s that?” He gave her an opaque look. “What does he say to that opinion?”

Again, Wanda had to laugh bitterly. “He detests everything noncommittal. He thinks that I have betrayed him and hasn’t spoken to me in many years.”

“But you love him anyway?”

“Very much.” Her voice was now nothing but a whisper. It was astounding how much that hurt even after all these years. Her father hadn’t even tried to contact her after he had tried to break her out of S.H.I.E.L.D.s custody. After Wanda had explained to him that she had surrendered herself and wasn’t about to break her word, he just had wordlessly left, cold fury in his eyes. To this day, he had not forgiven her this betrayal, and in a way, he was right. Wanda had abandoned his cause, but she had never stopped loving him. That was a thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

“He knows.” Steve finally said after a long pause, his expression compassionate and knowing. Something about his demeanor made Wanda think that he might have had a hard time to figure that out as well. It was just him and his mother, so he had been an only child while the father was missing. Since he came from an era of war, it was not unthinkable that his father might have fallen. Loss like that brought up the same questions Wanda had asked herself. ‘Why has he left me alone? Am I not important enough? Doesn’t he know that I love and need him?’. Any child left alone by its father asked itself those questions, and Steve had found his answer. “Every parent knows somehow.” Then why did she feel like crying anyway?

He must have sensed it, because he quickly changed subjects. “Who’s the girl?”

“Lorna.” Wanda replied with a throaty voice, still gathering herself. “Lorna Dane. She’s my half-sister. Don’t be fooled; that brown hair is dyed. In reality, it’s green.” She could see that he was still at a loss for words, so she just continued babbling. “She’s a sweet and devoted girl. The man beside her is called Pietro.” She pointed at the young man with his white-greyish hair, his eyes bright with laughter. “He is actually my twin.” He was still silent, staring at the picture of her family, so she started with a question, hoping not to overstep any boundaries. “I understand that you are an only child …”

“Yes.” He replied, as if suddenly woken from a dream, only reluctantly turning his gaze from the picture. “Yes. Sorry, I can’t imagine what it must be to have a twin. One hears the strangest stories about it …”

“Some of them are true.” Wanda tried to smile, but it was a sad excuse for one. “Pietro and I haven’t spoken for a long time either, but growing up with him was never being alone. He wasn’t like a shadow, he was like a part of life, always there, always caring.” What kind of stupid conflict had tore them apart, she kept to herself. Instead, she focused on the good times they had and didn’t stop talking in hopes of taking the conversation into happier levels. “I even remember when we started speaking. We were raised bilingual - Romanian and German - , and we took it upon ourselves to add our own secret language to it.”

This time, Steve seemed to shake off his tristesse and started smiling, broad and genuine. “Really? It must be useful, having your own language to talk to each other.”

She shook her head. “I’ve forgotten most of the words. Twin speak of this kind is mostly a simplification of existing words. For example, my name was simplified from Wanda to Ana.”

“And Pietro?”

Wanda smiled, feeling how even the shadow of her brother within this conversation lifted her spirits. “That, my curious friend, is a secret for the ages. Alas, I am sworn to take my name for him to the grave.”

“Aaaw, darn it. I had hoped to get some dirt on your brother.”

“Not today, sir.”

He gave her a look that was hard to interpret, something between measuring and appreciating. Then, he briefly touched her shoulder and nodded towards the kitchen. “Come on then, Ana. We still have dinner. I hope you are hungry.”

Hearing this name spoken to her after decades was somewhat strange, but it wasn’t an unwelcome sound. It felt warm; it felt right.


	11. Fianchetto

 

 

It took Natasha only a minute to open the door to the research facility that was supposedly secret and shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Night had fallen upon the great city of New York, a city of splendor and hidden treasures, of hell and heaven alike. Something like this facility was well-hidden among other buildings; some served for offices, others for laboratories. It was here where the trap was to be sprung.

“Perimeter secure for now. You go, girl.” She heard Clint talking in her earpiece. He was to watch her movements while she took upon a risky assignment. She was wearing her black catsuit and S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia, and they both had chosen this facility with care. First, they wanted to know who had them shadowed and protected. Both Clint and Natasha were in the game long enough to know that one had to know all the players in the field to maneuver, something that Cap had stressed when they had talked this mission over.

What’s more, Pepper Potts, of all people, had forwarded a vital piece of information: The Spymaster was somehow involved in this mess, and the flow of money was clear: This facility was at least financed by the Spymaster’s lackeys. This was no mission for infiltration; this was burglary and frontal assault in terms of gathering intelligence. If Natasha’s hidden protector was on the Spymaster’s payroll, they would know. If he wasn’t, it was all the easier to catch him now, as the Black Widow was about to piss off a heavyweight in terms of espionage and influence, so he had to intervene.

“Nothing so far. I don’t know much about that Spymaster guy.” Clint whispered into her earpiece, while she heard him crouching on one of the rooftops and fastening something on his belt.

Natasha smiled. “That’s because your approach is hands-on; Spymaster is more subtle. Your methods differ, so you don’t have much traffic.” Finally, the frontal door slid open, revealing two surprised security guards. One was reaching for his gun, but Natasha quickly grabbed his wrist and hit his elbow with the other hand. Bones cracked, and she kicked him in the knee for good measure, so he fell to the floor, writhing in pain. The other guard, a young man with big brown eyes, never even moved; he stood simply frozen in shock and surprise. Natasha didn’t give him the chance to recover. Every Judoka knows how to throw a person much heavier than oneself, and so she just threw him on the floor, hitting him on the chin to knock him out. Their radios were dispatched quickly with a device that was disguised as an eyeliner pen.

No more guards in this corridor. Weak security. She somehow liked the tapestry and thought that the potted plants on the shelves were a nice touch. “Spymaster is most likely a legacy name.” She told Clint via earpiece, unfazed by what happened around her and walking down the corridors. “He’s been around since the fifties, but switched his style in the eighties. It’s believed that someone else took on the mantle of Spymaster then. Before, he was much more politically inclined. Now it’s just money laundering and industrial espionage.” One lonely security guard on a desk in what looked like reception. He noticed her very late and looked up only to be headbutted. Security was really sloppy here; so nobody really expected a raid. Hubris. “He’s purely freelance; even S.H.I.E.L.D. has bought information from him on occasion. We also tried to track him down, but he’s really good at hiding.”

“He?” Clint asked.  
In the next room, Natasha dispatched two more guards by throwing electroshocking pallets at them with uncanny precision. “I say ‘he’ because it’s practical. It could be a woman; it could really be anyone.” Access to the research department was limited, so it would take a while to hack through it.

“And when he was politically involved, what did he do?”

“He mostly backed the KGB,” Natasha replied while searching through the files, “but he wasn’t very reliable. Nowadays, his modus operandi has changed. He works through a system of blackmail and obligations - he applies pressure on someone to make him do little things: look the other way, take a break at a specific time, procure a seemingly unimportant file and so on. The people he uses don’t even know who’s getting to them, and he never asks too much. He uses these little things to get more leverage and further his influence, a micromanagement to weave a network. His operations are delicate, long-term and lucrative.”

“Sounds like someone we need to take care of.”

“Not really. He has a strict no-violence policy, keeps the flow of money going and he’s careful not to clash with us. Up until now, we thought that he didn’t favor anybody. Actually, he’s good for the economy and keeps them all on their toes.” Darn it. It seemed like she had triggered some kind of alarm. She had to move fast now.

Over her earpiece, she heard heavy breathing and blows being traded. She had no doubt that Clint was subduing her shadowy protector, who was lured out by her reckless behaviour. Hawkeye never failed unless he chose to fail.

There was still no security personnel on her, which was disturbing. That meant that there was something about this facility that she didn’t know. Either they really just experimented with cereals or the security was needed somewhere else more pressing instead of stopping an intruder who walked through the front door.

It took one of her gadgets to finally open the massive door to the research area and she had to pass through a plastic curtain. The surroundings changed drastically; before, it had been warm, soft colours, potted plants and tasteful curtains in rooms that must have been light-flooded by day. Now, the electrical light was just a tiny shade too bright to be comfortable, the walls were stark white and the smell of disinfectant hung in the air. It looked all clean, sterile, cold and impersonal. The corridors were just a bit more narrow than usual while a quick peering into one of the rooms revealed brightly lit laboratories, just as impersonal and sterile as the whole section of this building. Every room had what looked like an antique computer, but turned out to be a high-tech console, coloured white like just about everything in this clean and sterile section of the building.

The faint smell of smoke was the first thing to greet her under the disinfectant in the air. Suddenly, it dawned to her why nobody stood in her path - obviously, the personnel had deleted all the data, set fire to the laboratory and vacated the premises before the intruder could get any information at all. But instead of running out of the burning building, Natasha pressed forward. If she found the the fire source, perhaps she could extinguish it before all the intelligence she could gather would be lost. From one of the tables, she picked up a piece of cloth, rinsed it in water at a wash basin and fastened it around her lower face, just to be on the safe side and avoid the real danger of a small fire - smoke poisoning.

“Subjects in retreat. You need to pursue.” That was all she could let her partner know before she started searching through the laboratories. Clint would have a much better chance of catching fleeing people, and perhaps she could find some intel or even better, douse the fire before it spread. She stopped by a few consoles, only to be disappointed again. No network, all data was saved on one console only and completely deleted in case of emergency. Smart, but not foolproofed. The smoke didn’t get any thicker, so the fire was spreading slowly. Good, that gave her much more needed time to search through this facility. Eventually in one of the last rooms she checked, she found a console that hadn’t been fully scrubbed and worked fast to save some data and view it later. It was then when she heard a moan of pain in the next room.

She had to pass a plastic curtain again, only to be treated with a horrible sight. The room itself looked like an operating room, all white, with a bed in the middle that held the patient.  
But what a patient it was: it was only a teenager, perhaps fourteen of fifteen years old, caucasian ethnicity, covered in green boils and blisters over and over. His shoulder looked grotesquely swollen, with grey tissue that had grown out uncontrolled. The boy spoke in a language Natasha didn’t speak, but sounded oddly familiar. A Belarussian dialect, perhaps, or Romanian. But one thing was for sure: under his cracked lips, dried throat and weak condition he could only manage the barest of whispers, and he pleaded for help.

Before she knew it, she had rushed to the kid and and stood helplessly at his side, unable to find a way to help him. In the back of her mind, she registered that there were no sign that the scientists had worn protective gear, so it was safe to be close to the boy. She attempted to take his hand, but stopped because of those appalling blisters. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the boy, but could neither bring herself to do nothing.

“It will be alright,” she told the boy in a soothing voice. She spoke Russian, the thing closest to his language, but didn’t really expect him to understand her pretty lie. Instead, she expected him to hear the sound of her voice and what it carried, and it seemed to calm him. She could barely make out his features under all the boils, and his hair had been completely shaven from his head. But under all the pain, she could see that he had very bright blue eyes. Those were the eyes of a mere child, wrestling with adolescence, eyes that adored and explored the world.

She could see the boy struggle, but then the light in his eyes flickered and died and he exhaled one last time, looking strangely relieved.

Natasha took a step back, appalled, shocked and feeling sick to her stomach. She had seen much in her career and done a lot of things that would drive other people insane, but she had never put a mere child in that much harm, nor would she ever.

Whoever did this to the boy would never do it again. She pressed her lips together and went to work, going through the motions like walking through a dream, strangely detached from the world and merely functioning in the most rational manner she could muster. The world of reason was a formidable sanctuary that had served her well over the years. Whenever something offended what was left of her moralities, she could always count on reason and intellect to shelter her and give her a new cause. It made her sleep well at night, it made her the person she was.

It didn’t take her long to find a fire extinguisher carelessly left behind, and the fire source was easily extinguished since the people working here had used insufficient fire accelerant. Sloppy, again. Worse, the fire source had been set over four more bodies of teenagers, two male, two female. All of them stark naked, all of them shaved all hair from the body, all of them wide eyed and freshly deceased, all of them obviously experimented upon. And none of them older than sixteen.

“Natasha?” She heard Clint over her earpiece. “I got your protector, but whoever worked here is gone. What’s your status?” She felt too sick to answer and knew that Clint would take what she found even harder. He had always had a soft spot for children and got angry whenever kids were harmed. He may be an assassin, but he drew the line when young people were involved, so she knew that he couldn’t bear the sight in this laboratory less than herself.

“Call for backup,” she replied curtly, still dealing with her nausea. “This is bigger than us. Get yourself to base before backup arrives and interrogate our prisoner. Let’s deal with this privately.”

Clint didn’t answer. He no doubt sensed that she had found something so disturbing that she didn’t want him to see it in person, but trusted her enough to brief him in time. It was good that she could rely on him and made her feel a little better in all of this misery.

Until backup arrived, she took a look in the facility. She didn’t find any more bodies, but old-fashioned files, on paper, no less. If the fire had spread, they wouldn’t have survived for sure. They detailed the experiments on the kids. Apparently, they all had some sort of gift and the objective had been to reinforce this gifts to the point where it could be used as a weapon. The blue eyed boy she had witnessed dying had been listed under the codename ‘Decay’, but this gift had turned against him. The others had died similarly.

Oddly enough, they had been turned in the day Cap had picked up Wanda Maximoff a couple of weeks ago. Natasha wondered if there was a connection. Speculation, there was no way to be sure at the moment. The only thing she knew for certain was that Spymaster was no longer just an industrial spy. As long as these large blue eyes from the boy haunted her, she would not rest well. From now on, Spymaster was her target.

 

* * *

 

It seemed to be the universal law that the closer a passenger sat the ground in a car, the more expensive it was. If so, the car Wanda was sitting in was too expensive for her taste. But then again, she was now one of the few people that could now boast that Tony Stark played chauffeur for her.

She glanced to the driver’s seat where Mr. Stark was sitting silently, his eyes transfixed on the road. They had been silent from the moment they had entered the car, and it was becoming uncomfortable now. “So …” Wanda said before she could stop herself. “You have a driver, no?” Happy Hogan was his name. She had met him. Jolly fellow. It would have been his job to oversee that Wanda wasn’t going to abuse the visit to Dr. Strange’s estate, but instead, she sat there with Tony Stark himself.

“Your doctor’s address is in Greenwich, near the point where Bruce Banner was last seen.” Stark sniffed. “Since the moment you’ve entered my tower, suspicious things became even more suspicious and weird things even more weird. Weirdness loves company, so perhaps it’s connected.” He fell silent after that, lost in thought while driving. The silence became awkward again.

“So …” Both said at the same time, Stark gave her a quick glance and she made an offering gesture, prompting him to go ahead. He grimaced. “I hear you are a witch.” Before she could say something, he added. “Cap explained it to me. Said something about bioelectric emissions not unlike body warmth and told me that he saw you do your thing.” It was clear that Mr. Stark, however, was not convinced about that, as she had guessed earlier. His mind worked with science and reason; superstition had no place in his world. That was why he took the term ‘witch’ as a hoax and herself as a con-artist. That he gave her the benefit of doubt was something that spoke much about his trust in Steve Rogers’ judgment.

“Ask your questions,” she said quietly, again making an offering gesture. It was to be expected to be doubted. When working with the occult, it was the scientist’s holy duty to doubt, and that was exactly what Tony Stark was going to do.

“What’s with the brooms?”

His flippant approach actually made Wanda chuckle. “There is indeed an answer to that.”

“Entertain me.”

She folded her hands onto her lap and started explaining, patiently and calm. Her own speech patterns were slow and deliberate in comparison to his, so it she had sometimes trouble keeping up with him. Having his ear was a nice change. “The term ‘witch’ or ‘hag’ derives from the old indo germanic term ‘hagazussa’, which means ‘sitting on a fence’. It is to be believed that the fence means the border between worlds. Another term to be considered is the Anglo-Saxon witan, ‘to know’ for ‘witch’. But that was a few linguistic revolutions and vocal evolutions ago. In time, the fence became a broomstick, and legend, superstition and storytelling made the broom flying. That’s why witches are associated with flying brooms.”

That explanation seemed to baffle Mr. Stark. “That makes sense,” he said, looking surprised that there was a scientific explanation at all, and even more so, that he could accept it. “But seriously … witch?” He shot her a doubting glance again, but at least he was willing to listen.

“Witchcraft is just the way I ritualize it. As Captain Rogers so aptly explained, it’s about energy emission, which is a genetic thing with me. But it takes focus, and I create my focus by gesturing or doing rituals.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t mean that I believe in some pagan spirits or deities; it just means that those rituals help me create effects that seem like magic …”

“... but are scientific in nature,” he concluded. “You must have a curious phenotype of mutation then. If people like you approach that problem with the same kind of ritualization, social evolution would dictate a whole new section of occultism, so science becomes magic. Thanks, Agent Cooper.”

That was certainly one way to put it. Wanda also sensed that, while Mr. Stark had only a passing knowledge about genetics and linguistics, he certainly had understanding, like every true genius did. Given just a little time, he would run circles around her knowledge she had spent years to acquire - like Jane, he was her superior intellectual by far. It was a humbling thought.

“There we are. Wow. Posh,” Tony Stark remarked when they reached the sliproad to Dr. Strange’s estate. He wasn’t referring to the house itself, which looked cozy even from the outside, but to the lush and well-cared-for garden enclosed by white picket fences. Even late in autumn, there were still flowers blooming under the great hickory. Small sculptures and bird basins decorated the site; one section had even been turned into a small rockery.

“Wow,” Mr. Stark said again, taking a few careful steps on the grass that managed to be flawless even though it should get mawed. “That’s the greenest of green I’ve ever seen.” He paused. “Hey, that rhymed. Anyway, does your Doctor practice his magic on plants? Or does he speak the language of flowers? How well do you know this guy anyway?”

“I’ve met him a few times, most recently a couple of months ago. He was teaching me about soul mirrors.” A lesson that Wanda had failed miserably, as she recalled. She was now walking towards the rockery, kneeling down to a small heap of pebbles. “He’s a friend of a friend, so to speak, and I was told to get help from him. And apparently, he is a magnificent gardener.”

“Right, and what are you doing there?”

She knelt and let her hand hover above the pebbles, answering the question with a knowing smile. “Checking my mail.” Indeed, one of the pebbles glowed ever so slightly when her palm hovered above it. There was just a trace of a minor enchantment on it, tailored to Wanda specifically, so that it was enough to store a message for her and her alone.

“Cooper ...” Stark’s voice sounded alarmed. She quickly picked the pebble up and caught up to him, only to see what made him so worried. When he tipped against the front door, it swung open, revealing the sight of a seriously messed up room. Wanda froze in her movements … the Doctor would never let himself go that way, and there were wards in place that prevented burglary - subtle wards that just gave any would-be burglar with the intention of stealing the strong impression to turn around and keep walking.

Something like this shouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. Dr. Strange was the most powerful sorcerer in the world. It was impossible that someone would just break into his home. Before Wanda could rush in, Tony Stark held her back.

“Call Fury?” He just asked.

“Not yet.” First, she needed to see. She needed to see that this was a joke, or that she terribly misunderstood the situation. Perhaps he had an apprentice and they messed up the house. Perhaps he wasn’t home, his ward had failed and it had been only a burglar. Perhaps everything was still fine and the Doctor was safe and sound.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the door, Tony Stark behind her. She should have felt a magical surge that was caused by his wards, filling her senses with magic, but nothing happened. She felt absolutely nothing. That meant that the wards had been deliberately destroyed.

The interior of Dr. Strange’s house was a mess. Everywhere they found signs of battle - furniture turned down, smashed and obviously thrown, smudges that looked like burn marks, holes in the walls. Some serious sorcery battle had been going on here, and it had been a while ago. The water marks on the carpet were long dried and the potted plants were wilting while a horrible stench filled the air.

The living room, however, treated Wanda and Tony a special sight indeed. The destruction of this home was worst here, with the smell of cold smoke and ash still hanging in the air, mixed with the stench of rot. The carpet, once a tasteful beige, was covered in brown stains. Dried blood. In what once had been a pool of blood lay a body, mauled beyond any recognition. His face was torn from his skull, showing muscles and sinews, while his shiny black hair was the only thing that could possibly shed light on his identity: Wang, the Doctor’s apprentice.

Wanda didn’t know what Tony Stark felt, but her heart skipped, leaving her with the impression of burning ice in her veins. Her stomach was turning as well, and for a moment, she thought she was going to throw up. Stark didn’t move either, didn’t joke. He just stared, and it took him a while to speak with an oddly leaden tongue. “I really hate this. Fury. Now.”

While he made his call, Wanda gathered all her strength and will to kneel beside the dried puddle that contained Wang, covering her mouth with a handkerchief to ward off the stench. She had to look, had to examine - perhaps she would find something the authorities couldn’t see, like it had been with the Hulk-head. Indeed, Wangs injuries looked very much like those on the mages in London, albeit much more messy and brutal. The sorcerer in London had been killed cleanly and quickly, cold and impersonal, but the Doctor’s apprentice had been mauled, not efficiently, but painfully. This hadn’t only been a murder, this had been cold-blooded torture.

“Judging from the state of decay, he’s been dead for two or three weeks.” She had to pause for a moment before she could continue. “This was done by someone like me.” Wanda only managed a throaty croak when she had Tony Stark’s attention. She only now noticed that he was pale as a sheet and equally appalled as she was by the situation. It was so strange, she hadn’t even known Wang. In truth, she was still surprised that she remembered his name at all, with him having been in the background during the Doctor’s visits in New Salem, if he had even ever been there.

“Same person as Banner’s attacker?”

“I cannot say, but it has the same feel to it.” She rose, but her knees felt weak. To her surprise, she was supported by Stark by the elbow.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

She was ready to let herself be led, but then she remembered the pebble. With a sense of urgency, she searched for the pebble in her handbag, produced it and looked around in the room. “Wait. We have to see some magic first,” she told a baffled Tony Stark before she found what she was looking for. An old mirror on the wall, only slightly cracked would suffice nicely. With one quick motion of her wrist, she threw the pebble into the surface of the mirror, which didn’t shatter, but reacted like the surface of a calm pond.

The mirror billowed, and the face of Dr. Stephen Strange appeared as a mirror image. He was an older man ostensibly in his fifties, with aquiline features, dark eyes, short black hair and greying temples.

The true beauty of this spell however was not in the appearance of his face, but in the audio feature. She could hear his voice through the spell as clearly as he would be standing before her. “Hello Wanda. Welcome in my home.” The mirror image said, his expression mild and amiable. “You have guessed it by now, but there was more to the attack in New York. I need you to retrace the steps of Loki, the Jotun, when he visited our world before. He must have had some agenda. For research material, you can use any of my materials and books you like. Wang will fill you in. Don’t worry, we will get to the bottom of this.”

With these words, the vision of Dr. Strange faded, leaving Wanda feeling hollow and disappointed. She had hoped for clearer words, for answers to her questions. Instead, she had found more blood and destruction. In the end, she there was no help, no back-up from the magical world. Her friendships were targeted and her potential allies died, like poor Wang on the floor. In the end, she was on her own.


	12. Servat Regina Colorem

 

Only Tony Stark could get the idea to devote an entire floor to training, so Wanda had to search what looked like the Disney World of fitness-studios with far too many rooms, or like a greater version of Professor Xavier’s danger room. It had been three days since she had found the body of the Doctor’s apprentice. She had spent those days in her quarters, refusing food or even to pull the light switch to be alone with her grief. It had been one of these times when the hours just seemed to fly by while she was lost in thought. Still, she hadn’t got an answer to the question of why.

It was now past noon and she had finally got up, showered and made herself presentable, only to realize that she needed to talk to someone. That someone had to have her trust, and between all these strangers she saw day by day, Steve Rogers was the only one she could think of and the only one who offered a solution. She found herself really missing Agatha, as the old witch was the very picture of patience and the best friend one could wish for.

She found Steve hitting a sandbag, glistening with sweat, his muscles rippling under his far too tight shirt. A few strands of his hair fell onto his forehead while he punched the sandbag with methodical fervour. He looked adorable.

Wanda had leaned in the doorway and only indulged herself in watching the Captain for a few moments when he noticed her, looking a little bit concerned under his polite smile. “Out of your hidey-hole at last?”

So her absence didn’t go unnoticed. How could it? There were only so many occupants in the tower, and she was still on Tony Stark’s payroll. She hadn’t shown up for work, which must have driven Jane Foster nearly insane. Her work on the scepter was more demanding than she originally thought, and she clashed frequently with the astrophysicist over it - and Jane never let a chance pass to complain to Steve about her slow work. This time, she must have had a field day.

Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, Wanda braced herself, before she could finally present her request. “Steve, I need your help.” Not the best way to begin this conversation, but Steve Rogers was patient, although he looked a little surprised.

Wanda took another deep breath. “I don’t want to be sidelined anymore.”

Steve blinked, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

“Over the course of my life, I have rejected a few opportunities. My father wanted my to be a part of his activist group. I declined because it put me at odds with S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint still wants to recruit me, but I declined because it might put me at odds with my father.” She shook her head. “These concerns still exist, but they aren’t my main concern anymore. Since the day I’ve been sent to London, I have stumbled over bodies again and again. I’m sick of all of this death.” She nervously rubbed her hands together; even to her own ears, she sounded more desperate than she had intended. This wasn’t going as planned, but that didn’t diminish the importance of her request. “I’m sick of just let that all happen. But if anyone can solve this mess, it’s you and your friends, all those extraordinary people with extraordinary abilities and extraordinary ways to gather information. At the very least, you will avenge these deaths, at best you will find out why they happened in the first place. I want to help you, not only with warding a dangerous tool, but with everything I have.” There. Everything she had tried to avoid the last decade had just been thrown overboard. She should feel something like regret, but instead, felt a little relieved. How odd.

Steve Rogers seemed to consider her request carefully, folding his arms before his chest and looking at her as if in evaluation. “You want in?”

“So to speak. I want to know what you know.”

Steve Rogers grimaced. Then he went to his bag, rolling off the bandages from his wrists, trying his best to look occupied while he was obviously deep in thought. Wanda waited patiently, feeling relieved and strangely confident, something she hadn’t anticipated. Steve however seemed to struggle internally with a decision, but turned around to face her. “Someone targets Gifted or people who are suspected to be mages. That includes you.”

“That is an argument in my favour, I presume.”

“True enough.” He shrugged helplessly. Then, he stepped closer, less than an arm’s length only to eye her up and down. There was something confused about his behaviour today. Perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder or something had gone more wrong than usual. “Look, things could turn ugly for you if you take a more active role and, say, help us investigating.”

“Fine by me.” Wanda replied, undeterred. Some part of her was actually itching to get itself into danger. This must have been the very insane part of her that needed to be thoroughly medicated.

The Captain sighed in frustration. “Very well. But I gotta ask you: Can you dance?”

She was fully aware that he just asked about her abilities in the area of self-defence and if she could hold her own in close quarters. Although he took the matter very seriously, he really looked a bit too stern. It didn’t suit him and would certainly leave a scar in the form of wrinkles if that went on. So, instead of answering him, she opted for a more playful approach to lift his spirits. “Foxtrot or Cha-Cha-Cha?”

He rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with irony, but also mild amusement. “Ha. Ha. So, no training.”

Wanda shook her head. “Sorry. Only Tai Chi for meditation purposes about six years ago.”

“What’s with that spooky energy-thing you do?”

Spooky … that was one description one could give about her powers. She could mask it with magic, but if she didn’t put that effort into it, it looked like glowing threads of scarlet red. Wanda thought it was disgusting. She crossed her arms before her chest and treated him with a doubtful look. “Half of the time, I am surprised myself what these hexbolts do. You really don’t want that loose.”

He grimaced in response. “You do know that the Hulk is a member of the Avengers roster?”

“Touché.” It was hard to compete with the Hulk in terms of loose cannons … that was, if Bruce Banner was found somewhere sometime soon. “But last time I used hexbolts against living people, it turned out bad.”

Steve Rogers just wordlessly seated himself on the table, made himself comfortable and made an offering gesture, beckoning her to elaborate. He without the hint of judgment, putting her at ease while sitting on a table in all his sweaty, tight-shirted glory. Wanda would have rather talked about his workout schedule than about the darker aspects of her past, but it was inevitable now. “Well … before Barton caught me, I clashed with a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. I just know that I pointed at them and they went all down, and that was everything that counted for me at the time. Later, when I woke up in the hospital, I overheard the nurse-talk - at least one of the agents had had a collapsed lung and suffered a serious choking fit. That woman later became the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to watch over me.” She took a deep breath. So strange - she had kept her experience with this curious kind of violence to herself. In his eyes, it must have been mild, in her mind, it was frightening what she could do with as little as a gesture. The Captain was a different kind of beast in that regard; as a soldier, he was accustomed to death and fighting, of the more gritty aspects of fighting. He didn’t have the same view as she, a mere civilian.

However, Steve didn’t fail to be reassuring. “Barton would have told you if something worse happened.” He chuckled. “And I know how it’s like not to have his own power under control. You wouldn’t believe how many water glasses I accidentally crushed after the serum.”

“People can be frail like glass.” That was at least what Wanda feared.

He nodded. “As long as you use your own power with care and responsibility, you should be fine. You already demonstrated that you can change probability in your favour with simple cards. What else can you do and how exactly do you do it?”

“That depends on my will.” Wanda replied, suddenly feeling a bit shy. What did he want exactly, a demonstration? She hadn’t done that kind of thing in a while, unless for training purposes. And Steve wasn’t Agatha; he was someone she still feared could judge her, and if she was completely honest, someone she wanted to impress at least a little bit. Her chaotic spells and powers weren’t exactly ideal for this task.

“It’s ok to show off.” He reassured her as if reading her thoughts. Her uncomfortable feeling must have been very obvious. “How exactly do you do these ‘spells’?”

“Well …” She answered, mainly to gain a little time. There was a small part of her who was eager, anxious and giddy to show him what she could do, but that part was certifiably nutters. “I mostly imagine what I want to do and make a gesture or a ritual to achieve it. When I practiced something or when the effect isn’t that spectacular, it’s safe to say that I can do it.” She made a pointed gesture at the sandbag, letting a small bit of magic flow, and the sandbag started swinging as if someone had just punched it. Steve stopped the bag from swinging further with one hand, his eyes never leaving her, thoroughly interested and even intrigued.

“More sophisticated effects are also possible,” she said eagerly, gathering power for her next trick that was indeed more demanding in terms of complexity. It would be an illusion, which wasn’t exactly her forte, but something that stood reason not to cause too much damage. Since she was showing off, she would include a verbal component, something that she normally didn’t do - it looked so silly. Illusions were, by their very definition, messing with the mind of the observer, so she thought about the first tv-show that came into her mind and that had messed with the minds of the audience. She took her chant out of it. “Through the darkness if future’s past/the magician longs to see/One chants between two worlds …” She noticed that she was smiling while she worked on the suspense, finally opening her arms for the climatic end of the spell. “Fire, walk with me.”

 

It should have been a nice, illusionary spectacle. Fireworks, perhaps, or sparkling flames dancing across the room. But things didn’t go as planned; instead of an illusion, actual flames were blazing everywhere, taking the form of a huge bird spreading its wings, then dissolving into the air, leaving just the echo of brightness and the sheer force of flame behind. Like the flickering of candlelight, all the flames died after a moment, which was more than enough to startle Wanda and Steve. From one moment to the other, the room had been alight with heatless flame, but curiously enough, it had blackened the ceiling. Great … she just vandalized the Avengers Tower.

It got better. There was a short noise and the sprinkler system went off, drenching both Steve and Wanda completely. Both looked up to the ceiling where the water was coming from, both silent, both unsure how to react. Wanda noticed that the running water just served to make Steve even prettier, while with her, it just ruined her make-up. The world wasn’t fair.

“I think you made your point.” Steve said dryly, giving Wanda a wry smile that had nothing to do with ridicule. Maybe he thought it practical that he had technically done his post-training shower. “Jarvis, end fire extinguishing system.” Wordlessly, he went into another room, came back with a few towels and offered Wanda one, his face carefully neutral.

She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. While pondering the decision, she carefully dabbed her face. Steve, however, hid his face in his towel, making muffled funny noises every now and then. It wasn’t until long that Wanda realized that he was desperately trying not to laugh. It was that kind of contagious laughter that completely took her dark mood away, so she started giggling as well. “Fire truly walks with me,” she snorted with laughter, while Steve, trying in vain to bite in his towel in an attempt to choke his amusement into submission.

“Poof!” He chuckled, accompanying his words with a gesture describing the flamy spell, all the while standing in a huge puddle of water.

After they had both calmed down, Steve’s grin died and he obviously needed to change the subject. “I wish we had found you earlier; Loki would have never known what hit him. Seriously, we have tons of free space. We’ll find one where you can practice your … spells. I call them chaos grenades.”

Wanda nodded, simultaneously trying to dry her hair and listening to the Captain. “Very well. Should I ever be in any shape to aid you without being a danger, my skills are yours. Even if I am not, my skills are still yours.”

“That’s all I can ask for. In return, information. You’ve met Natasha?”

In her opinion, Natasha Romanoff was a fascinating woman that carried herself with the confidence of a master of her craft, which was admirable in its own right.

The Captain sighed in frustration. “She caught a merc who was hired to protect not only her, but every person belonging to the Avengers. When asked who hired him and his colleagues, he described a tall woman in white.” There was a slightly accusing undertone in his voice, but he took the edge out of it quickly by sing-songing the last part of the sentence. “… hair black as S.H.I.E.L.D. catsuits, eyes blue like my water bottle, voice like melted butter, air of sadness ... sounds familiar?” His smile died and was replaced by the expression of concern. “Seriously, he identified you when shown a picture. He has no reason to lie, but the time-table doesn’t fit. When he was hired, you were on a whole different continent. It wasn’t you.”

“Definitely not.” Wanda nodded in affirmation. How strange. Nevermind that she wouldn’t have used those flowery descriptions of herself, who would have thought that someone would use her identity, of all things? And why would someone want to let appear as if she was in a position to hire protection for the Avengers? That made no sense, unless she was chosen at random just to hide the real woman in white. But, there was nothing she could do about it as long as she had no further intel to figure it out. “I would never wear white anyway. It makes me look paler than I am.”

Steve Rogers nodded, playing along with her flippant mood. “There are a lot of ways to copy someone’s appearance. Old-fashioned masks, biometric holoemitter …”

“Yes.” Wanda replied, her mind working on another possibility, but working started to be increasingly difficult as she started to shiver with cold. “But it must have been someone who saw me very recently.” She pointed at her head, her hair specifically. “Those have been black only for a relatively short time, and I only emerged back in public in London. This is the first time that I tried this hair colour. So, it follows, the woman impersonating me must have seen me recently.”

“... and you haven’t left the Tower save for one occasion.” Steve added, his face brightening. He took one of her wet strands between his fingers, twirling them playfully. “Who would have thought that hair dye would give us the hint that we need? What’s the natural color, by the way?”

“Brown.” Wanda couldn’t help but smile, feeling giddy like a teenager “Boring, boring medium brown. I usually dye it auburn.”

Before Steve could answer anything, he was rather rudely interrupted by a female voice in the corner of the room. “For the love of God, stop it. If you two are displaying any more, I’m going to puke right here, right now.”

Victoria Hand emerged from the shadows with the skill and poise of someone used to dramatic entries. She was a ridiculously tall woman with caustic features, dark eyes, black-rimmed glasses and auburn hair with red highlights, holding a folder in her hands. Her voice was rich, steady and icy like her demeanor, and her eyes were filled with steeled resolve that seemed to be woven in every fiber of her being. This woman didn’t take anything lightly, smiled only when she had beaten an enemy, and was above human emotions like humor or compassion. With her chin slightly raised, she shot a cold glance at Steve Rogers; and even he seemed to be taken aback. Wanda, however, had no illusions that she must have looked outright guilty.

“Captain.” She nodded to Steve Rogers respectfully, never losing her air of coldness and professionalism. “Since Romanoff and Barton are on their wild goose-chase, I am going to be the in-between until one of them can pick up their duties again.” Her voice for both of her fellow agent’s supposedly private matter contained no small amount of disapproval. She nodded towards Wanda. “Imagine my surprise when I found out that you are harboring a fugitive. You, of all people, Captain Rogers.” Her antagonism became something exhausting in Wanda’s eyes. Victoria Hand had been her supervising officer within S.H.I.E.L.D. and had made sure to make the witch’s life a living hell, wielding protocol like a weapon. On the other hand, she couldn’t be faulted, since it had been Hand who had had the serious choking fit the day Barton caught the Scarlet Witch.

“We do,” Rogers just replied, his demeanor casual. Why weren’t there any witty banters when Hand was involved? But Victoria Hand’s critique seemed to roll off like mercury and he left her simply with that answer.

“I see,” Hand said, obviously disapproving, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your fugitive for a minute or two.”

“I just might mind.” Steve Rogers was now visibly irritated and tight-lipped.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get her back in one piece. We just have to discuss some private business.”

Steve exchanged one look with Wanda, and although she wasn’t really keen on being alone with Hand in one room, the woman was reasonable after all. So, she nodded, Steve grabbed his towel and left them both alone.

When he was gone, Victoria Hand eyed Wanda from head to toe. It was odd … there were people on this world that possessed names that were impossible to separate. Victoria Hand was not Victoria, and she wasn’t Hand in all but the rarest of cases. She was Victoria Hand with her surname, Victoria Hand with her last name.

“I must say, I’m disappointed in you,” Victoria Hand said, her expression cold and humorless. “I thought we had an agreement: You had to be observed at all times, and yet you simply left without a trace.”

“That wasn’t an agreement, it was your rule. If it had been an agreement, my opinion would have mattered,” Wanda replied, her composure restrained, but ultimately, she was disturbed by the unmasked hostility of the agent.

“True.” Hand cocked her head. “Let’s be honest here: I don’t like you. I think you and your kind are just a whim of nature. You will pass. If you want to call me a racist, go ahead. I can call you a terrorist in return and be equally right.”

That wasn’t even an insult anymore, that was a full-frontal assault in terms of offence. But Hand’s words didn’t fail in their purpose; they stung. It still hurt to be called a freak, and it still hurt to be called something different than the norm that this business-like woman before her embodied. But at the same time, she felt anger welling up inside her. This wasn’t fair. This treatment wasn’t fair for anyone. “I wanted to call you bitter instead,” she answered with a strangely hoarse voice, like she was close to tears.

To her credit, Victoria Hand was still keeping most of her poise and cool even while outright rage bled through, seething underneath. She stepped closer exactly like Steve had done it a few minutes before. She even mocked his gestures in taking one of Wanda’s hair tips between hair, twirling it, glaring all the while with an intensity that left even Wanda speechless. Victoria Hand’s anger was as tangible as any massive object, visible, audible, a strange taste on the tongue. Her voice was barely a whisper, shaking with anger. “Remember …” Her hand trailed along Wanda’s blouse, ripping it open with a sudden movement. Wanda herself was shaking, in part because of the cold, while another part was terrified and petrified with indecision and terror. With a single movement, Victoria Hand had not only revealed the undergarments, but also the little scar on Wanda’s chest, just above her heart. That was how Clint Barton had restrained her all those years ago - he had shot her in the chest and regretted later to have hurt a minor, nothing but a kid in his eyes. But before this had happened, Victoria Hand had laid before Wanda, choking and gasping for air for her dear life. “Remember that. We both should have died that day, but you live because an assassin found his conscience.” Those words were spat in disgust, and Wanda couldn’t even fault her. Receiving such a serious injury because of a cocky teenager was nothing to be trifled with. But it was worse, so much worse.

“You live because of Barton,” Victoria Hand continued, still seething with anger, still whispering. She pointed her finger at her own chest. “I live because I had a teammate. His name was George Connor. They transplanted his lung just in time to save me.”

Merciful God. Teammates, transplantation … Wanda had killed those men that were down all those years ago. It must have been organ failure. But how? Why didn’t Barton tell her? How must Hand have felt to watch over a girl that had killed her teammates and crushed her lungs? Worst of all, Wanda got away scot-free in Hand’s eyes.

The shock sat deep, and Wanda just stood there with widened eyes, unable to move, unable to speak. She had taken lives - she hadn’t done it intentionally, but that didn’t change the fact. How did that happen? How could she ever forgive herself?

Victoria Hand saw Wanda’s horror, and there was the hint of a smile on her face. It dawned on her that Hand deserved to be cruel. She deserved to be angry and she deserved to give her hell. “You didn’t know, did you?” She asked, already knowing the answer. But there was more. There was always more. “You know, I was a promising field agent at that time. My little incident with you put an end to that. What can I say?” She shoved the folder, whatever it contained, into Wanda’s hands, took a step back, turned on her heel and gave her a “thank you,” dripping with irony, only to leave her alone with her grief and her guilt.


	13. Round Robin

 

Jane Foster was very pleased with herself. The progress she had made in the last few days put everything she had achieved in the last two months to shame, and all because she had decided to go against the rules of someone else’s game.

After that Maximoff person had not shown up for work, Jane had decided that she couldn’t wait any longer. At first, Maximoff had told her that her work on the scepter, whatever that was, would take no more than a week. One week became a few weeks in which Jane’s own work stagnated. So when the first opportunity arose, the astrophysicist had removed Loki’s scepter from its rune circle and started experimenting with it, and the first readings alone showed much promise. Her lab in Stark’s basement had all the toys she could dream of, and after the unnecessary delay, she had had more than enough time to modify some of the instruments. It was high time as well - Bruce Banner had been missing for more than a month now, and with every passing hour, the chance of finding him alive dwindled more.

She had to admit though that the idea of approaching the scepter’s radiation from a biochemical standpoint hadn’t occurred to her until she had started to work with Dr. Elisabeth Ross, an acquaintance of Dr. Banner, via phone. Dr. Ross’ input proved to be invaluable, especially since Jane had to work alone in her lab. Darcy was often occupied with her own studies, and Erik wanted to finish his own project in London before he could help her. He didn’t say what kind of project, but from what she had gathered, it was just as time-sensitive and in its own way crucial as her own work. So, declining Tony Stark’s offer to hire independent lab-workers in fear that they could secretly work for S.H.I.E.L.D, she was mostly alone in her basement, accompanied only by Wanda Maximoff during the day and Darcy whenever she had the time. And there was Thor, of course.

Jane smiled involuntarily when she thought about their holiday in Tahiti, those few magic weeks that belonged just to them and them alone. After his loss of mother and brother, he had certainly deserved to lie at the beach and slurp down one cocktail after the other. It was fortunate that Odin, the bigot of bigots (and that insulted bigots all over the realms), had given him leave to be the person he deserved to be. Jane and Thor were at odds when it came to his father, but they just had agreed to disagree and enjoyed their newly blossomed relationship.

Also, while he had no mind for science, Thor was surprisingly apt in using technology, he made a decent lab assistant in a pinch. To think that when she first met him, she only thought him to be a piece of evidence and nothing more, was almost laughable now.

While Jane reminisced, the elevator door opened and Wanda Maximoff stepped into the lab, a folder under her arm, not greeting Jane or even paying her any mind. This woman was odd - she seemed to spend way too much time before the mirror, and Jane didn’t really buy that whole maiden-of-sorrow-act. At the same time, she had heard rumors that Clint Barton was allowed to drag her half-naked through her quarters, but she openly flirted with Cap at every opportunity she got. Sometimes, Jane thought that Wanda took herself far too seriously and spent way too much time on her own ego than on her work, something that the astrophysicist couldn’t abide. This work was important, there were lives at stake, and Wanda Maximoff had nothing better to do than tell her in that quiet, sad voice of hers that patience was a virtue. Great. Patience would be a great virtue when whoever was behind the kidnapping of Bruce Banner finally revealed himself.

What’s more, the whole “witch” thing didn’t add up. Thor had told her that his people had repeatedly visited Midgard and none of them had ever found any trace of magic like Frigga or Loki had used; so in the best case, Maximoff was delusional and lived in this tower because she was pitied. In the worst case, she was a con-artist that somehow had at least one Avenger convinced of her non-existent witchdom. Now that she thought about it, Jane couldn’t even decide which was worse or what her game was in either case.

Instead of going on with her work, Wanda sat down at her desk and started reading the folder she had been carrying. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, she had been concerned to be mildly (and quietly) reprimanded and relieved of Loki’s scepter, but nothing of this sort happened. Again, Maximoff didn’t have her priorities straight, which gave Jane the opportunity to finish what she had started. She had persuaded Erik to do a sensoric sweep of gigantic dimensions. He had called every lab he could possibly call in the UK, and together, they would do a practice search for the data she had gathered from the scepter. She had also added the biochemical specs of a sample from Thor’s tissue just to add another variable to the mix, as well as readings gathered from the Hulk. All in all, she didn’t expect much of a revelation - it was an exercise, a prequel to what she planned to do in New York. If such a sensor sweep could be done at all, she could filter certain variables like Chitauri traces and concentrate her search. She could find Banner, and it had taken her two days with Loki’s scepter to come closer to her goal. So the last thing she needed right now was a possible con artist foiling her plans.

She could hear the elevator door again, but this time, it was Thor who stepped through, a large grin on his face and one steaming pot of coffee in each hand, looking dashing even in something so simple as jeans and t-shirt. He wore his hair tied back in a ponytail and kept his beard short, no matter how often Jane complained about prickling kisses. He wouldn’t shave it off and that was that. He apologized every time the topic came up and kept her well-supplied with coffee, which he frequently proclaimed to be the nectar of gods. Asgard had about every delicacy imaginable, he always said, but coffee and chocolate were a purely human thing, and that alone was worth enough to protect Midgard from any harm. There was only one thing in his mind, as he told her every so often, that was more important, more unique and more precious than all of Midgard’s treasures - Jane Foster. Indirectly, he made it a compliment to think her better than coffee, but when he said it, it had a charming quality.

“Lots of milk, two lumps of sugar,” he said, putting the pot next to her on the table while she didn’t stop to make the last configurations. He planted a kiss on her temple, a gesture that made her smile. “Any progress on your endeavour?”

“Almost there.” Jane replied. The sweep was about to begin, and it should be mere minutes before she would receive her first readings. She continued to explain to Thor, who was just as accustomed to listen to her projects as she was telling him about them. “You see, everything leaves a trace. If I’ve done everything right, I should have readings from your stay in London. It’s not about DNA - that falls apart after a short time. But you have a unique magnetic field and a unique bioelectrical signature, and with luck, you leave that behind for a much longer time. If I can find your trace in London after sweeping the whole of the UK, I should be able to find Dr. Banner even in this radiation- and alien-trace-infested New York.”

“So if you can find me on a large island although I’m not there anymore …” Thor started.

“... I can find Banner in a huge city if he’s actually here. I expect a few drawbacks along the way, but if I keep pushing, I will find him for sure.”

“‘Tis wondrous. We don’t have a machine that can do that back home. We would employ a spellcaster for a search like this.” The proud smile Thor beamed at her spoke volumes. It was at times like this when Jane was sure that he wasn’t only enamored with her, but with humankind as a whole. He still loved his home better, but when he interacted with the people and saw new places, he was genuinely fascinated. It reminded her that she still had to get him to see ‘Wicked’, as a ‘study of human folklore’, of course.

“Well, no spellcasters today. Just our own wits.” She had barely spoken the words when she received her first readings from across the great pond. Thor, knowing that she needed peace and quiet while she started to analyze the data, kept his silence and enjoyed his coffee while he watched her work. Jane was pretty sure that, while he had no talent for science, his education would allow him to speed the process, but he wouldn’t do so. He had once explained her that he adored the way she turned problems into scientific success and that he would probably help her achieve her goal, but hinder what made her truly amazing as a scientist: the ability to solve problems and learn something while doing it. Then there was the fact that he sometimes tried to cover up that he was genuinely lost when she talked about her theories.

She had no idea how much time it took to project her results on a screen, laid out with a detailed map of the UK. What she found out in the end baffled her, and a sideways glance in Thor’s direction showed that he couldn’t quite figure out what that could mean. Even Wanda Maximoff had approached in silence and watched the screen, frowning.

Jane had marked every location with a trace similar to her sample and the energy emitted from Loki’s staff with a distinctive red dot. She had anticipated a red dot hovering over London, but there were red dots all over the place. There were traces all over the UK.

“Ok, that doesn’t make sense.” Jane exclaimed. “That can’t be right. Perhaps there’s a mistake there somewhere …”

“You have used the staff, yes?” Wanda Maximoff interrupted, her voice eerily serene as always. Obviously, she had listened to the conversation with Thor. “Then you have found traces left by energies like the scepter and like Asgardians. So, you were looking not for one specific creature, but for alien and magical influence.”

“Nonsense.” Jane shook her head, her frustration building up. “Thor’s people have only repelled an invasion in Norway, so that leaves Thor. But I know for sure that he’s never been to Cardiff, or Canterbury, or Sherwood Forest. Why do I have readings in Sherwood?”

In this very moment, Thor started to chuckle, and even with this suppressed laughter, it was heartfelt, like everything he did. “I’m so sorry, Jane. My fault, I should have known …”

Jane could have sworn that he even wiped tears from his eyes before he continued, grinning broadly. “This ‘Sherwood Forest’ … wait, let me start at the beginning. My people have a custom, we call it the Bard Quest.”

“Like minstrels singing songs and telling folklore?” she asked, wondering how this could possibly tie into her readings.

“Not quite, it’s not only about storytelling, it’s also about being supremely knowledgable. See, bards are held in very high regard with my people. There are skalds, who are of great importance for morale, but being a bard is something more. There are very daunting requirements for becoming one: a bard must travel all the Nine Realms, and in every Realm, he must collect at least three dozen stories from every corner of the Realm and leave one epic of his own in every corner.”

“Every corner meaning every country?” Wanda asked.

“One could say so.” Thor nodded. “Svartalfheim and Jotunheim are waived nowadays for the journey. But in the end of his travels, a bard has to write an epic about it which should take weeks to perform. That’s why we currently have only one bard residing in Asgard, a man by the name of Ullr. He’s ancient, but shown every reverence.”

She still didn’t see what this had to do with her botched experiment. Thor seemed earnest about this, though, so she understood that being a bard was serious business in Asgard.

“My people think that the best way to write stories is to live them beforehand. Also, most of the aspiring bards start their quest in Midgard, but most of them come back empty-handed. For example, my friend Frandral and Loki have once attempted to become bards and started their quest together.”

Jane couldn’t help but smile. “Loki wanted to be a bard?”

“He was very young, and so was Fandral.” Thor smiled warmly and a touch wistful. “But they brought stories with them when they returned, stories about dashing swordsmen, daring archers, evil princes and a bird of Sherwood Forest.”

This time, it was Wanda who looked at Jane with an arched brow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably.” Jane smiled. “Just to be sure … Thor, do you happen to remember their names?”

Thor frowned, looking at the ceiling, obviously thinking hard. “Fandral was Rob … Robert something and Loki went by the name of William with the scar? It was so long ago.”

And there went one childhood hero of Jane. Now she was sure to never look at Fandral the same again, now that it was certain that Robin Hood and Will Scarlett had been aliens. To add insult to injury, she suddenly couldn’t keep the chant “Brave brave brave Sir Robin” out of her head.

Wanda Maximoff on the other hand seemed to get some mild amusement out of Jane’s childhood heroes being aliened. “So your people are visiting our world every now and then to collect, tell and live stories? That makes sense, especially concerning a variety of worshipped deities.”

It occurred now to Jane that her sensor sweep had picked up traces that were literally about a thousand years old. That worked even better than she had imagined.

Thor nodded, again slipping into the wistful mood. “Fandral had had enough after one adventure, but Loki was cut from a different cloth. He became restless, driven by his dream to become a respected bard and eventually returned to Midgard. He stayed there for centuries, and when he finally came back, he locked himself in his chambers and wouldn’t even come out to eat. I … I guess I should have talked to him, but I was too stupid to see that he had been hurt by something. Now I will never know.”

He was close to slip into melancholy, so Jane had a choice - either switch the topic, which would not help the case, or try to cheer him up. Although his brother had been a psychotic murderer, Jane couldn’t help but wonder if there had been more to the story than she knew. In the end, even she could see that Loki had loved his brother, even if Thor doubted it still. In the end, Loki had been loyal, despite all the evil bravado he had displayed. That spoke louder in her book than every word he said in her presence. “He still lives in our stories, Thor.”

He wasn’t comforted, to say the least. “Stories of him being evil incarnate,” he said bitterly.

Before Jane could say anything, she was surprisingly backed up by Wanda, who joined the fray.

“Au contraire,” she said, a sad smile on her face. “The world knows about the Chitauri, but Loki’s involvement has been downplayed. It is far more easy to believe in ugly aliens than in the ones that look human. As far as the world is concerned, the incident in Stuttgart and the Chitauri-Invasion are separate. And if you are alluding to the mythology … let me put your mind at ease.”

“How?” Thor asked. “I understand that Loki has been compared to your devil in times of old.”

“That’s only half-true. With christianization, there was a need for demonization of pagan beliefs, and it is true that Loki took the brunt of it. But in pagan beliefs, gods were concepts. They represented something in nature, and these natural images formed their personality. Loki in the nordic mythology was the God of Fire, and fire always represented destruction, but also scientific progress. Loki even survives in language, as there are various sayings that use his name. For example, when yarn is in disarray, there’s an icelandic saying ‘There’s Loki inside’”

While Thor seemed a bit baffled, Jane cocked her head. “And that just came from the top of your head?”

“I’m afraid not,” Wanda said with a guilty smile, holding up the folder she had brought with her. “A S.H.I.E.L.D Agent gave me this folder about mythological background, and I just paraphrased. But I think it was meant for you.” She nodded in Thor’s direction.

“What else does it say about Loki?” He wanted to know.

“Let me see.” Wanda cleared her throat. “... oh, there’s a note from the author, Professor Randolph. ‘It is my firm belief that Loki is an old concept for a deity, the spark of chaos with two sides: one destructive and chaotic, one benevolent like fire itself. Disregarding claims of newer, obviously christianized sources, Loki as a deity has much more in common with Prometheus than Lucifer.’”

“Prometheus is the greek deity who brought humankind fire and science,” Jane quickly added.

“Lucifer is the devil.” Wanda’s addendum was just as quickly done.

Thor pondered on this for a while, but it was clear that his mood had brightened a little, knowing that the memory of his brother wasn’t exclusively negative. “You are telling me that Loki was the patron deity of science?”

Wanda shook her head. “Loki was the patron deity of solving problems, sometimes solving them by ingenuity, sometimes by destruction and sometimes by causing them in the first place.”

At last, a smile crept on Thor’s face, as he clearly liked the idea. “You got him better in your mythology than most of his family ever did. What does your Professor Randolph say about me?”

“Plenty.” Wanda smiled, handing him the folder. “But I think you should see for yourself. There’s also a note from Agent Coulson that you should meet Professor Randolph face-to-face. Am I correct in the assumption that you tried to retrace Loki’s steps?”

“Yes, your message had me worried. ‘Retrace the Jotun’s steps’. I’ll be damned if that isn’t Loki.” Thor nodded. “But it is nigh impossible to know where he has been. As I said, he spent centuries on Midgard, and nobody knows what he was up to. I also had to do missions on Midgard several times and simply delegated them to Loki …”

“It would have been nearly impossible …” Jane interrupted. “Up until now. If I can narrow down the search, I can at least see where he’s been over the course of time. Even with his illusionary skills, we can safely assume that he spent time in the 12th century in England. He couldn’t have gotten very far, so we ‘only’ have Europe to sweep through until … 15th century?” She glanced in Thor’s direction, who shrugged while reading the folder.

“Make it the 16th, just to be on the safe side. I still get the Asgardian and human calendar mixed up.”

“Great.” Wanda mumbled. “From the Dark Ages to Renaissance. Loki hasn’t picked the best of times, but he surely picked interesting ones.”

She was right. As much as Jane hated to admit it, but getting to know humanity in the Dark Ages, of all times, with all the witch hunts and oppression of art, culture and education in abundance couldn’t have been pretty. Loki must have had a pretty skewed view of humanity, and perhaps he didn’t take the time to see if they had changed in a few hundred years. But committing mass murder and invading with a huge alien-army was definitely over the top as reactions go. And he still deserved the slap she gave him, Thor’s brother or not.

When Wanda got up, it occurred to Jane that she had to have noticed by now that the scepter was missing, or rather, being used in an experiment. Wanda hadn’t said a word; either she had decided to be diplomatic or she lacked backbone. Again, Jane couldn’t decide which was more likely. When Wanda was about to leave the lab, Jane decided that she at least wanted to get a reaction. “Do you want the scepter back soon?”

“No,” Wanda replied, looking hurt and dismissive at the same time. “I don’t care anymore. Do as you will.” Then she left, giving Jane no opportunity to reply.


	14. Bad Bishop

 

“Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet … the rare occasion, when our hearts can speak, our selves unseen, unseeing … You do know that I’m going to ask eventually? I can’t read this forever; at some point you have to tell my why you just walked away.” Steve Rogers paused, looking up from the book he was reading. He had slumped himself onto the couch on the opposite side to Wanda, looking awfully comfortable.

“Huh …?” To be fair, Wanda’s response wasn’t the pinnacle of eloquence, but it certainly did the job.

“Jane gets herself the magic trinket you are supposed to ward, and you do nothing? Aren’t you going to stand your ground at least a tiny bit?” Ah, that’s the way the wind was blowing. When Steve had decided to spend the evening in her quarters, she had tried to shoo him away by persuading him to read a french play. It had been obvious that he wanted to talk about what happened that day, be it Victoria Hand’s interference or Jane’s sudden progress in her experiments. Steve had heroically read two acts aloud and with gusto, even having the indecency to enjoy himself. Now he switched the topic, good-natured and amiable, but with enough edge to let Wanda know that he wouldn’t let her sit this one out.

She sighed. “I wasn’t aware that this was a competition. If it is, I’m not playing.”

“That’s almost a defeatist thing to say.”

He was wrong. It wasn’t about being defeated, if the situation was competitive at all, but rather about what she could do and what she couldn’t. After her talk with Victoria Hand, she simply didn’t have the strength for any more conflict and tragedy. Wherever she went, she only found a trail of bodies, the most powerful sorcerer in the world was gone, and she didn’t even know where to start searching while only having a few prophetic visions to cling to. At least another part of the vision back in New Salem made sense now - the double-edged curse woven by her hand was the geis that had so spectacularly backfired on her, so that she couldn’t mention a possible culprit to anyone. If Jane Foster wanted to endanger herself, by all means, Wanda wouldn’t stop her. Not that she could.

“It’s not about being a defeatist,” Wanda said, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling a bit chilly. “It’s about being reasonable. Whatever I do, Miss Foster will simply do it again. She doesn’t believe in the danger - which, to her credit, is only a possibility - and she has made some very tangible progress in a very short time.” If that meant losing, at least she was losing gracefully.

Steve Rogers let the book sink into his lap, visibly choosing his words with great care. “Yet, you seem upset tonight.”

Of course she was upset. She was frustrated and wanted the whole situation solved. She wanted to leave the security of the Tower without stumbling into more death and destruction. She wanted to know that the Doctor and Agatha were safe and sound, and she wanted to finally do something about this mess. She loved Barton as a friend, but neither was he currently there, nor did he seem to notice that she had reached legal age a long time ago and still thought her a kid. Also, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Captain Rogers used kid gloves on her and sometimes treated her like something fragile.

“It should hurt more,” She finally heard herself say in a quiet voice before she could stop herself.

Rogers arched his eyebrow questioningly.

After a deep breath, Wanda decided that it was much easier to share. She was a murderer, as she had been told today. No, no murderer. Murder implied devious and violent intent, and she had done no such thing. What she had done was accidental and by some extent necessary, without malice or hate. It made it no less a crime and a killing, but there had been no murder. There was a fine line, and that line was intent. At least, that was what she told herself. There was a psychological term for it: rationalization. It was a defense mechanism, so Victoria Hand’s revelation bothered her, which was good from a moral standpoint.

The lack of sorrow on her part only meant that she was numb to it and the shock would come at a later point, or she was emotionally stronger than she had thought. It was a troubling thought, to think that she was even able to take a life and regret it, but ultimately arranging herself with it rather quickly.

That led her to her initial thought: it should have hurt more either way. “You read my file. You know that during my capture, there were … casualties.”

There was something flickering in his eyes which she couldn’t quite place, then nodded slowly, empathically. “I think I understand the problem.” Which was as good a reaction as any. Once more, Wanda had to remind herself that Steve Rogers was a soldier. He killed when given no other choice, and he had done so in the past. When he told her that he understood the problem, but had nothing further to add, she believed him. He had already dealt with his own demons, so to speak.

“I was hoping you did. But why …?”

“... doesn’t it bother you more? Is that normal? No, it isn’t.” There was a soothing quality to his voice and expression, despite the thoroughly disturbing turn. “Most people can’t deal with this type of consequence. You can, and that’s good. You are dealing with it right now. Some people numb themselves to death and become an emotionless husk. You don’t, and that doesn’t make you a bad person, it makes you strong.”

His reassurance, the comforting words and his smile wrung her heart. Could it really be that simple? That it was alright to feel sorrow, but not to be eaten away by it? Could it even be a strength? She would never had thought so, as clinical depression was the ultimate sign of surrender to sorrow, to weakness incarnate. Perhaps she was better than she thought. Perhaps this new lifestyle, for all its frustration, and Steve’s company were better for her than she thought.

“Feeling better now?” He smiled, lolloping himself back on the couch, no matter how preciously little room he left for the other person. When he started reading, he sounded - and Wanda almost hated herself for thinking something so clichéd - dreamily romantic. “I love thee. I am mad. I love, I stifle! Thy name is in my heart as in a bell, and as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth … “ He started to browse through the pages, seemingly sobered from his earlier state. “He does this for the rest of the act?”

Wanda nodded, smiling, trying not to interpret too much into his behaviour. That wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about, but she indulged him for the moment. If he wanted to talk about a play instead about the elephant in the room, by all means, who was she to stop him? “But when it comes to kiss the girl, he sends the man he is impersonating, leaving him Lazarus in a celebration of love.”

With a sudden gesture, he closed the book with a snap. “Ok, I have no more time to wait for the ending. Let me sum this up: Cyrano is madly in love with Roxane, but fears her because he’s ugly. Roxane is madly in love with Christian because he’s a pretty boy, but he can’t cater to her artistic needs. Christian is madly in love with Roxane and is, in his own right, a clever boy, but awfully shy and in need of Cyrano feeding him his lines to even have a chance of courting Roxane.”

“Correct.”

“That’s messed up.” Steve shook his head disapprovingly, regarding the cover of the book closely. Wanda had the sneaking suspicion that he related to one of the characters a little bit too much. After all, he had spent most of his lifetime as a skinny little boy that nobody could have taken seriously, and only a few years as the hero he was. Feeling inadequate was something that he probably hadn’t gotten rid of by now, and probably never would. “How exactly does Cyrano think that helping Christian with every word he says to Roxane, even impersonating him, would work in the long run?”

Wanda smiled. “That’s called a major character flaw. Fatal, even. But you surely don’t need me to recite the ‘love is blind’ line, no?”

“Is it?” he asked, his tone now serious. “Dear Ana, what a cynical thought to think love so blind, it can never see through any illusions.”

Now she laughed bitterly. “You have no idea.” But then again, he just might have. “Have you never done something incredibly stupid because you were head over heels for someone?”

It seemed that she had struck a nerve, because he propped himself up, leaning his elbows on his knees, his gaze now intense and utterly serious. “Have you?”

For a moment, she really struggled with the decision to answer that question truthfully. On the one side, she still was a tiny bit afraid to be judged by him. On the other hand, she knew intellectually that he wouldn’t - he wasn’t the type to judge a person by past actions. She could tell him a lie, that she had always kept her head, but suspected that he would see straight through this ruse, especially given the conversation they were having. She could simply decline; he would respect that, but it seemed the cowardly way out.

That left the truth, bare and ugly as it was, and Wanda needed to take a deep breath and couldn’t meet his eyes while she told him. “Yes, I have. I did that with my last boyfriend, the S.H.I.E.L.D Agent.”

There was an audible gulping sound coming from his general direction. “I sense a story here.”

“Not much of a story to tell. We dated for three years, but I found out about his true obligations after four months.” She grimaced. “It is a curious thing; usually, suffering from insomnia tends to complicate just about everything, but this time, he didn’t notice that I was still awake and called in with his boss with me in the room. Not the smartest move, but then again, my move wasn’t smart either - I stayed.”

“Why?”

“Because love is blind.” Wanda tried to smile, but it must have looked forced and sad instead of reassuring. “He never found out that I knew, while I let him spy on me. I guess he wanted to get my father’s location. That lack of trust is a brittle foundation for a relationship, so I was foolish to think that everything would work out if I just played along.”

Steve Rogers gave her an opaque look and rubbed his palms together and cast his eyes down, as if deep in thought. “Now it’s my turn, isn’t it?” He asked after a while of companionable silence. He glanced at her, and after receiving a barely visible nod, continued. “There was this girl … there are girls and there a girls. I’m not making any sense, let me start again.” He muttered under his breath, avoiding Wanda’s gaze as she had avoided his. “There are different ways to love and be loved. The first love is unforgettable, and then there is love just as fleeting as spring. But there’s also the one special person …”

When Wanda nodded empathically, he made a sound of relief and didn’t continue the sentence. “I had found her … she was headstrong, bold and fierce, and I think she returned at least a fraction of my feelings.”

When she saw him staring into the emptiness, she had to admit that she felt the sting of jealousy when he talked about his former love. Something about him was different tonight, something that might have something to do with this girl of his. He likely had met her in the Forties, so the possibility that she had passed away was not unthinkable. Perhaps it was even the anniversary of her death, or her birthday. Whatever it was, it made his behaviour wistful, but also a tiny bit more erratic than usual. Then again, they had talked an awful lot about pain and loss this evening, which was bound to have an impact on the general mood. She wasn’t immune to it herself.

“What happened?” Wanda wanted to know, but already guessing the answer.

Again, the expression on his face was hard to read, but it was safe to say that a trace of suppressed remorse bled through. “I did nothing. That was everything that happened.” He finally met her eyes and forced himself to smile. “Anyway, no sense in dwelling on the past.” He held up the book. “How does this end, by the way?”

Wanda folded her hands in her lap, feeling a little guilty about answering the question. “You will not like the answer.”

“That always means a lot of death in the last act. Let me guess: Roxanne dies of an illness?”

“Worse.”

“The evil count marries Roxane?”

Wanda shook her head, feeling her mood brighten. “Still worse.”

Steve looked mildly amused as well, which was a good sign. He started to browse through the last pages. “Worse? Must be a bloody spectacle in the end …”

“Not quite. Christian dies shortly after his wedding to Roxane, but don’t worry, she cradles his dead body in her arms.”

He snorted. “Naturally. Frenchmen. What about the hero? What about Cyrano?”

“He dies fourteen years later, about two minutes after his confession about the impersonation and about one minute after confessing his love.” Wanda explained patiently.

“So after all the baked harps, huge noses, colourful fencing and poetry, it’s a story about love and death?” Now, he outright grinned, his mood restored to its former, optimistic self. “Seriously, that’s depressing.”

“The only thing depressing is the fact that you still haven’t packed for your trip to D.C.” She rose from the couch, ready to escort her guest to the door. She would rather have him stay, but a playful part of her wanted to test if he would put up any resistance of calling it a night, the other, more reasonable part was fully aware that he really couldn’t have packed anything.

What baffled her was that he didn’t say anything. Of course, he looked like a boy that wanted to object to cleaning his room, and he followed her with visible regret and reluctance, but he was either reasonable or didn’t really object. Granted, reasonable was the more likely solution.

“Well,” Wanda began as they reached the door to her quarters. “Here we are. Door.” She gestured in the direction of the door for good measure. Why she suddenly felt shy was a riddle for the ages. She had escorted guys to her door for a long, long time now, and only in the earliest and rarest of cases, she had become this shy. “As I said, door. Saying good night. Feeling awkward all of a sudden.”

“Me too.” He looked as if she had just spoken what was at the bottom of his heart all along.

“So …”

“So …”

“It’s good night, I guess.” She shook her head. “I already said that. Indirectly, that is.”

He nodded empathically. “I know what you mean. You know, I wanted to say that I really like these evenings, but I think I will walk through that door first.” He winced almost the second he finished the sentence, probably berating himself for stumbling over his words. It was one of these instances when Wanda noticed that she could hear the blood rushing through her ears and the heart pounding wildly in the chest. It was like being a teenager all over again.

“I keep forgetting something.” Steve muttered under his breath. Of course he kept forgetting something, and how. It was high time that one of them asked the other out for coffee, at the very least. The had danced around the issue for weeks now, and keeping this tension unresolved before he went to Washington would be almost unbearable. But, as always, there were a number of complications.

First, Steve Rogers was an organized person, but not particularly skilled in the rituals that went with every infatuation; neither did he know how to encourage or discourage advances, nor did he get the timing right. He was sweet, but he really didn’t.

Second, Wanda still wasn’t sure if he was doing some innocent flirting or playing for keeps. She strongly suspected that he didn’t know either.

Third, warm and fuzzy feelings aside, neither did she know what she was playing at, not to mention that she usually tended to keep things non-committal as long as possible. Some sadistic part of her enjoyed this awkward phase of uncertainty.

Fourth, he was still a man of the forties. On the battlefield, he was mighty Captain America, but Steve Rogers - considering his upbringing - had been taught another flirting etiquette in which the female part was completely passive. So, Wanda had to restrain herself, lest her being too bold would irritate, confuse or even frighten.

These were all good reasons to stand still and keep smiling while he struggled with his decision. Patience was a virtue.

After three seconds, he was still undecided. The women of the forties must have been angels of patience.

He shook his head and reached for the doorknob. Really? Hells and damnation, he just wanted to leave! She was telling herself to be patient over and over again, but some of her higher brain functions had apparently been hijacked by the spirit of throwing away all caution and doing what might irritate, confuse or even frighten. She leaned forward, all her expression a friendly reminder, her voice barely a whisper. “You know, a good-night kiss would be awfully polite.”

This was the first time she actually saw Steve Rogers sweat aside from the sessions with his sandbag. As predicted, he looked surprised and a bit overextended with the situation. Now Wanda couldn’t shake the impression that she had done something highly inappropriate, like harassing a puppy and tried to take a step back. She had just started to wonder if she had misinterpreted their previous interactions - why else would he be so worked up because of a measly kiss? - and braced herself to be rejected. “Sorry, Steve. Too bold …”

“No no no!” He gestured quickly, but he wasn’t as nervous as she had feared him to be. He even managed a wry smile and seemed a bit more relaxed. “I was just wondering where to plant it.”

There are occasions in life where the heart makes a little jump. Those people had highly unathletic hearts, Wanda thought, as hers was making at least a double somersault. She decided to play along, as the playful approach suited her much better. “Depends on what you want to express.” She smiled, taking one of his hands in hers and stroking over the back of his hand. “Politeness.” He played the statue while she spoke, and played it nicely too, while she traced a line with her fingertips on his neck, resting lightly on his pulse. “Passion.” She continued trailing her fingers along his skin, while he closed his eyes and seemed to simply enjoy her feather-light touch. With her index finger, she tipped his cheek. “Friendship.” The same was done with his forehead. “The deepest of trust.” Her touch barely reached both of his eyelids. “Longing.” One tiny pinch to the tip of his nose that made him smile, but not open his eyes. “Sweetness.” Her fingertips wandered directly under the nose. “Bad aim.” At last, two fingers rested on his lips, the meaning left unspoken.

He slowly opened his eyes, but there was a flicker that she hadn’t seen before, as if he saw her for the first time and was in equal parts angry and afraid. His gaze hardened and he gripped both of her shoulders tight, so tight it hurt. His features were distorted into a grimace of complete and utter disgust while Wanda could have sworn that a growl dawned in his throat. His voice was low and dangerous when he finally spoke. “Get away from me, woman!” With these words, he shoved her, and Wanda - horrified about his behaviour - nearly stumbled to the ground. He was gone before she could say anything.


End file.
